I can hear the English Bay’s waves rhythmically lapping from my window in the kitchen on the 6th floor The kitchen is mainly where I am these past months here in Canada I feel at home in a kitchen even in other countries Kitchens are home Home is a kitchen but I’m not home Why aren’t I home? I ask myself that Over and over again Why am I not home in my kitchen in Brooklyn? I had a girlfriend in the 1980’s She loved Kitsch It was everywhere in our kitchen in Astoria, Queens Kitsch here and there Home is where the heart is kitsch reads The heart isn’t home unless you’re there I say Are you there heart? Are you home in the kitchen in Brooklyn being warmed by my mother like the chicken hearts she sautéed in a small iron skillet with butter until crispy and delicious? My heart used to be delicious It’s not now That’s what I think these days You can tell me I’m wrong Please do Taste my heart It’s there in my kitchen in Brooklyn But I’m not home In the dark of this night the waves keep lapping at my heart Here in the kitchen on the 6th floor
I feel this, Jake. All the trade-offs we make in a lifetime, big and small. I love the interplay here between kitsch and kitchen, past and present. True enough that home is where the heart is, but sometimes that even seems tenuous. One day at a time...and peace where we can find it. ❤️🩹
Beautiful expression and reflection.