We still have the dented measuring cups
and spoons my mother used all her long married life, and we use them
too. We open the drawer to the right of the stove, and there they
are, along with her rolling pin and biscuit cutter — a drawer full
of memories and monuments. Her old flour sifter is on the top shelf
in the spice cabinet. And there are dozens of other items, from
implements to pans, trays to pots, knives — good god, and there are
the cutting boards my father made shortly after the war, which there
is no need to name, because there is ever and always only just one.
Come home, my love, come home, and let us have children.