The Levee

There is a path from where I park my car that goes to the house. That walk is long enough where I don’t see the house from the car, nor the car from the house. Daily as I make this walk, I sense where I left disappear and where I am going come into view. The entrance to the house is the side door, not the front door and it lets one in first through the porch and then into the kitchen. I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, cooking, drinking tea and reading at the table. The walk to and from the house and the passing of time and meals in the kitchen have a new meaning since the death of my mother. Strangely, her passing illuminates what is honorable and at times unnoticed in these daily routines.