Two tables reside in Steve’s kitchen. One rests in the middle of the room, a six to eight people seater in a pinch. Today its gold pine veneer is bare. Against the wall, near a large window, is a smaller table covered with a red tablecloth. On that tabletop rests very many items, including Steve’s pride and joy: his pepper plant. Three plants really in a single pot, with one sculpted into a tiny tree. His bonsai baby. The pepper’s canopy shades a pot of African violets that are in riotous bloom. Next to the violets stand a champagne flute filled with cut tea roses long past their prime in shades of white, pink and orange. They droop, their little heads. I still find them beautiful, crinkly petals reminding me of an ancient grace, like the skin of aging women. In front of the flute squats a golden-hued goblet. So far it is empty, though I am thinking of filling it with the rose petals. There are more items on the table: a white watering can, a pair of scissors (used on the pepper), a spice rack that’s more decorative than functional and a bunny bucket. The bunny bucket holds Steve’s mail when he is away on trips. A few books. Some scattered dirt left by a mouse in love with the pepper plant. That’s what I see this Sunday morning as I sip my coffee in Steve’s kitchen.
