Mother's Slippers in the Kitchen

On the weekend I went home and lay down again in my old bed by the window. At five in the morning, before it was fully light, I woke to a very small sound out in the kitchen. I lay still and listened, one hand pulling the blanket up to my chin.

The poem below was written from that morning. It does not say what my mother is like, and it does not ask you to think of yours. It only records a sound.

Five o'clock, still dark.
I lie under the blanket,
listening to the kitchen,
slippers shuffling on tile.

The strap is worn down on one side,
each step drags out a soft sound.
Shuffle. Stop. Shuffle.
Stop at the water jug.

The click of the gas stove.
Pot against pot.
The smell of fried shallots drifting in
before I am even awake.
Nobody calls me up.

As a child I heard it and never noticed.
Now I lie here and hear every beat,
like a song
I knew before I knew its name.

The slippers reach my door and stop.
A quiet sentence through the wood.
I answer with one small word.
The slippers move on.

In real life the sentence was: "Sleep a bit more, the rice isn't ready." I said: "Okay." That was all. Neither of us said anything else, and I did not go back to sleep. I lay there listening to the spoon touch the side of the pot until it got light.

I know not every home has a sound that makes people feel calm. In some homes, footsteps in the kitchen are footsteps you have to be careful around. If yours is like that, this poem does not ask you to feel warm. And if someone at home regularly insults you, controls you or frightens you, that is not something to practice forgiveness on. Talk to someone you trust or to a place that offers support, and if you ever think about hurting yourself, open the Emergency Support page today.