The Doors Are Quiet Now
The cupboard doors in my mum’s kitchen always rattled when I opened them. Her measuring spoons hung on hooks on the back of the left door and her measuring cups on the right, and they always jingled against one another no matter how quiet I tried to be. We gave them away yesterday to a young couple who are moving in together for the first time (well, the first time that their parents know about). When I made breakfast this morning—the last meal I’ll ever eat in that house—the doors were as quiet as I used to wish they’d be.
As I left the house for the last time I wondered how long it will take the hummingbirds to empty the feeder outside the living room window and how long it will be after that before they stop checking on it. It snowed overnight, and there’s a lot of winter between them and spring. I hope they’ll be OK.
Later: I left home in September of 1980. I didn’t call every week, but I figure I probably talked to my mum four Sundays out of five—say, 1600 times or more over forty years. I didn’t call last night because there was no one there to answer any more. I haven’t taken the number off my phone, though; I don’t think I know how to do that…