by Scott Clark
The refrigerator in the kitchen is running
When I return late from visiting friends
Whom I have not seen in years.
My sister sleeps in a recliner in the next room
The son she named after me asleep in her arms.
We are all so much older now.
The house is quiet except for the refrigerator hum.
It’s door is covered with paper attached by magnets.
Post-it notes, grocery lists, take-out menus, and family photos.
The pictures are recent and my relatives stare back at me
From in front of Christmas trees, vacation scenery.
Buried underneath a newspaper clipping is a photo of me.
I am standing on the porch of this house, my mother’s house.
My hands are in the pockets of my raggedy jeans.
I am looking at the camera as though surprised,
More than a little hungover I suspect.
A large travel bag hangs off my shoulders.
It is the uncertain, wandering, years ago me.
My sister stirs, awakes and sees me.
She stands slowly, careful not to wake the boy.
“We were waiting up for you to say goodbye,” she whispers.
“Do you want to wake him up?” I ask.
She shakes her head, “We’re going to bed. Good night.”
I watch the Mother and Child ascend the stairs.
In a few hours I will be on a plane
And a few hundred miles after that
I will be standing in my own kitchen.
Listening to a running refrigerator
That is bereft of adornments
Of any kind at all.
I replace the newspaper clipping
Press my palm against the door.
It is alive with vibrating warmth.
I put my head down
Close my eyes
And forgive them all their smiles.
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