The Light in the Kitchen Window

The kitchen window

We play outside the kitchen window. It is summer. Warm days turn into cool evenings, and fireflies flit helter-skelter across the yard. We run nimbly across the newly mown summer grass that stains our feet from the evening dew. It doesn’t matter. We play Hide and Seek, No Bears are Out Tonight, Red Rover, or run races across the rectangular lawn from our uncle’s field to the garden’s edge.

Sometimes we catch fireflies in jars and poke holes in the lids. Every evening, we run outside, sometimes to get out of helping with dishes, but usually because we want to play. It’s a last hurrah before bedtime with no school on the morrow.

Through the open kitchen window, I hear Mama’s voice and rattling dishes as older siblings help wash, dry, and return dishes to the white wooden cabinets. The light from the kitchen window shines out into the dusk, and all is well, for Mama is home.

I carry the memory inside

Later, when we can no longer find each other in the darkness, we head inside. Another day of childhood is gone. We run to the bathroom and sit side by side on the edge of the tub, a row of three or more girls. One of us turns the handle to open the water spout and then turns it off when the water barely covers the bottom of the tub. Waste not, want not, Mama says. We swish our feet into the warm water in the bottom of the tub and consider them clean.

In the back of my mind, I wonder why our mama allows us to spend so much time playing while she stays inside, working. There’s a sense of guilt, but the guilt is not strong enough to persuade me to come inside and help. I have older siblings who outgrew Red Rover years before, who help while their younger siblings play.

Deja Vu

One day, I am the Mama in the kitchen while my kids play outside at dusk. I hear their laughter and fun, and I smile. I remember my mama, and I no longer wonder why she allowed us to play outside on those summer evenings. My mama knew we were willing workers (most days) and she knew if she called, we would come and help.

My mama also knew that outdoor play was one of the best medications for bedtime and a good night’s sleep. I know this, too. She knew that comradery in play helped us work out our differences and helped us understand each other. I know this also. Mama learned what was happening in our world by listening to us play.  So do I.

The older I get, the more I am just like my mama. There is no better music in a mother’s ears than having her children at home, playing in harmony with each other. Although there are clashes and off-key moments, the blending of personalities brings together a tune that is melodious and real.

Still, a light in the window

Once again, it is summer at my house. Fireflies hover across the newly mown lawn, now empty and quiet. I sit on the deck and look across that lawn where we spent our summers raising kids instead of grass. I remember ripples of laughter outside my kitchen windows, and I smile. . Fireflies flit across the empty, quiet lawn. Our kids are grown and gone. Yet, when they come home, they move in sync with each other and our home once again fills with music. That tune comes from their childhood when they learned to work and play together.

A gift my mama gave me was the pleasure of play. That gift, passed on to my children, is now passed on to theirs. On those summer evenings when we caught fireflies in jars and poked holes in lids, the light from the kitchen windows shone into the dusk. Inside the kitchen was a mama who cleaned up the kitchen alone while her children played outside. In that kitchen was a mama who loved them and wanted them to grow up, healthy and strong.

Inside that kitchen, with the light streaming out into the dusk, was a mother who was home.