Frank In the Kitchen, With a Lucky Strike

Supper was long over. Dishes, utensils, pots and pans had been washed, dried and put away. The table and all counter surfaces wiped clean. Manual labor for one of the many children, whosever turn it was for that chore

At night the “stove light” was lit to allow minimal illumination for rapid entry into and out of the kitchen for tasks: get a bottle of milk from the fridge for the baby, toss a piece of trash into the wastebasket by the back door, get a “drink of water” from the kitchen tap, fetch a tissue for someone who had sneezed.

At the end of the day, the kitchen was empty and quiet. If someone entered, they never lingered. There was TV to be watched in the living room, homework to be done seated at the dining room table, and laundry to be folded and carried up to the various bedrooms.

The father often found his way to the dimly lit kitchen. That was his domain. Anyone darting into the room for any reason would find him there – standing,  smoking, a beer in hand or on the table behind him, silently staring into space. There was never a word spoken between the unspeaking stander and the kid rushing in and out with an errand. It was understood that the darkened kitchen later in the evening was Frank’s territory. His place to be alone. His place to ponder. Pondering what, she used to wonder.

Once, when she entered the shadowy room to fetch something, she was surprised to hear her voice asking,  “Hey dad, what are you thinking about?” Without breaking his far away gaze, he murmured, “Work. I’m thinking about work.”