The scent of baker’s yeast communing with cinnamon wakens me and I know Dale is in the kitchen. Coffee’s brewing and I hear the chitter of a lone blue jay, trying to defy the reality that cold weather is upon us.
The rain seems to have let up. Staccato drops pounded our window most of the night and last night, rather than lull me into sleep, it accompanied disjointed thoughts that battered my exhausted mind.
Now I toss aside the comforter and steady myself before dragging my old body from the bed. When Dale starts the day in the kitchen, I know how it will unfold. Chicken and dumplings is what he promised and I bet you anything, he’ll make a pie. Fall does this to him—rouses his inner chef. And by evening I know my already-wrinkled hands will shrivel even more from hours of washing pots and pans. I guess great creative spirits aren’t exactly prone to being neat and tidy. At least Dale isn’t.
When I emerge from the hot shower, it is with images of glaze melting over the hot cinnamon rolls, of steaming cups of java and a sweet morning kiss. My senses are so acute that I begin to salivate.
I dress slowly now. That’s the way it is when arthritis has its way. Then drag a comb through my white hair. I remember how long and full it was when we were young. I take a moment with my make up. Dale cares enough to fix me comfort food and so, I take the time to fix myself for him. Our love is always young.
Walking down the stairs, I grip the railing, but still my heart is quickened as I know the love that waits for me below.
I enter the empty kitchen and only then I remember. We buried him yesterday, didn’t we?
Written in Response to my Monday Morning Writing Prompt where I invite you to share your thought about autumn’s FOODS. Poetry, flash fiction, essay, recipes, photography…all are welcome. I hope you will join us. Please note, this is FICTION. My wonderful husband/chef is alive and well.