Midnight. Not a sound from our pantry. There rests our skillet. My husband’s great-grandmother’s. He claims that it has never been cleaned. But then he showed me “the way”, the “proper way” to rinse it.
Confusing, men are deeply confusing. But that is neither here nor there. Because when he sees the skillet, he sees his family eating as one, catching up and checking in.
He can taste the food she cooked, the herbs she crushed by hand and, potatoes she mashed until they were smooth, until their hearts’ aches were fully soothed.
All on her own, for her family to enjoy. He does not want me to scrub it, because he does not want the memories cleansed. Her strength, patience, full heart, and probably tears, are in that skillet. She is always with him, living again.