The Kitchen
to grubby little me who, in want of a pepsi
always knew where to go.
too shy for social etiquette,
I sat on her porch
waiting to be seen.
soon her voice, “Oh, Hideko,
I neva see you. So hot today,
you want some pepsi?”
my nod followed her
into the kitchen where she poured
warm pepsi into a white porcelain coffee cup.
she could have used crystal,
it would have been safely held
between my hands, as I sipped and felt
warm pepsi flow down my parched throat.
there was no ice in our village, no electricity
or supermarkets. deprivation was bliss.
looking back, I hear the dialogue
between Fanny and her children:
“ma, what happened to the can of pepsi?”
“oh, that Kakugawa girl was here again
so I gave it to her.”
“oh man, she always here, drinking our pepsi.”
when I became a caregiver
for my mother with Alzheimer’s,
I sought Fanny’s kitchen once again.
she was gone then, and we were
all scattered, after Pele’s eruption
that covered our village away.
oh, how I needed a pepsi drink
living half in fear in the eerie world
called Alzheimer’s.
using that Kapoho girl savvy
I found solace in Jane’s home.
a Fanny in every aspect.
her door unlocked for my visits,
I went straight into her kitchen, declaring
“I need a mother,”
and sat myself down at her kitchen table.
“I dropped my mother at adult care
and I’m tired and hungry.”
that brought Jane to her feet. brewed decaf coffee,
lunch or breakfast, pending time of my visit,
dessert and more decaf while I kept one eye on the clock.
there is something so comforting to hear,
“eat, eat. You look too thin.”
once again I hear the conversation at the end of Jane’s day,
“don’t we have leftovers for dinner? “
“oh, Fran was here today.”
it was a place where I sat to gather,
a self that was being gnawed away, too,
by that Alzheimer’s thief, and Jane let me be.
Jane died last week and I grieve
for the kitchen she offered me, no matter what time of day,
and for being mother when I needed one most.
there’s a kitchen here in Sacramento
since my move nine years ago, a kitchen with another
name, but the same kitchen as long ago.
Mary’s kitchen is where I now sit,
when my need for a mother, or a friend
drives me to her home.
I sit and wait for freshly brewed coffee,
or hot green tea with healthy snacks,
vegan-made by Mary’s hands.
I honor all three women this quiet day,
for their kitchen without lock, and warm Pepsi
to soothe a parched life.
Frances Kakugawa was born in Kapoho on the Big Island of Hawaii, destroyed by Kilauea volcano. She did her reading in out-houses and by kerosene lamps and used her pen to get out of a place she mistakenly thought had nothing to offer dream seekers. She is an award winning international author of eleven books. Three of her books are on aging and caregiving. She also writes a column for caregivers in the Hawaii Herald.
Frances devotes her time giving keynote addresses, workshops and readings throughout the US on caregiving, teaching, poetry, and writing. She facilitates three writing support groups: Poetry support group for caregivers, Memoir Writing, and a generic poetry group in Sacramento where she now resides. Visit her website and order her books here.
Smoke
by Teal Takayama
The night after his death
I went to bed in silence,
more aware of my body,
aware of every step and movement.
I could feel the action in every
solemn joint. It continued that way
for a while, I felt everything
and it was exhausting.
I’d think of that one time when
we were on the back steps,
another cold night. We were
smoking and watching the smoke
drift away above the bushes,
breathing and watching our breath fade.
Then we’d watch it all, the transient white
separating until it disappeared out
of the range of the weak streetlight.
“The way you can tell the difference,” he said,
“is that breath disappears in two seconds.”
He was right, and so for the rest of the time
I would exhale the condensation
and count it, one, two,
gone. Meanwhile he watched,
the smoke from his cigarette carried
high. Now I think about you every time
I see my breath.
I never felt as strongly as you did,
never understood what you were thinking about
when you just watched.
Years later I still don’t know, I’m still
counting breaths while you watch, somewhere,
smoking. I can see your smoke still rising
into the night, past the bushes,
past the trees, higher. Until
it has disappeared out of the light,
out of the range of my vision.
Until it is just the smoke,
separating from my breath,
rising higher, higher,
one, two, gone.
Teal Takayama is from Pearl City, Hawaiʻi. She studied writing under Lois Ann Yamanaka and attended Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon. She currently works on federal policy as a legislative assistant in Washington, D.C.
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