Hilda with Wings
Michael F. Sperandeo
The tile was the focal point of my memory. Orange - yellow- tah- floral. The countertops were full due to the modest size of the space. The residual smiles from acted as particles in the air, catching the rays of light that peeked through the window, similar to me peeking around the doorway, unable to contain my curiosity? “What is that smell?” How is she so focused” “When do I get to help?” The freedom in her eyes stays close to my heart. Its amazing to think of how many hours must have been spent in there. Cooking, working, loving. The kitchen was her cocoon. She would spend days preparing for her metamorphosis, blossoming from her kingdom as a butterfly, just like the butterfly magnets that clutter the refrigerator.