Her Last Kitchen Start with the perishables. Peaches sunsetting on a white plate. Spotted bananas in a wooden bowl. Do you know the formal name for a bunch of bananas? A hand . A single fruit, a finger . Some hungers require an amputation. At root, bread means fragment. You are fed, yes, but the whole is broken. When we were all still very young our father called her Mother Hen. She called us her chickadees. Her brood. The years of care and feeding, the raising, done, the whole broken into seven pieces. Give us this day this dismantling. I toss and clean, leaving the cups and plates, forks and spoons. But then, here is something I can use: her little spice shelf’s cream of Tartar, nutmeg, ginger, and rosemary. Pure ground black pepper in a tin. Coarse grain sea salt, ready for grinding. --published in MER - Mom Egg Review Vol. 24 2026
