I’m standing on the deck with a cigar and it’s dark now. They say, ‘Don’t blink.’ I blinked taking snap shots because this is how I remember. The deck isn’t large and then there’s the sliding glass doors. These aren’t important. What’s inside is where my heart is.
My wife is in the shower. Our son is asleep. A child I wished to have and now do have. I blink and see a shelf through the sliding glass doors on the left. On the shelf are antique spice tins, small cast iron trays, greenery which I don’t like but she does and she’s best at making a home so they’re there. Blue jars and a metal fire truck which isn’t antique but looks like it is. Above the shelf hangs a large wooden American flag.
On the wall, near the shelf, there is a large wooden star and two wooden butterflies. Megan says we’ll not need the butterflies when we move and to toss them. Her father says to pack them and find a place for them to be.
In the middle of the room there’s an island which shines from multiple cleanings. It’s dark outside and the cigar smoke slips around my vision.
On the kitchen counter stand four empty beer bottles. On the kitchen sink there’s a brush standing upright because it has a suction cup bottom keeping it in place. We use the brush to clean Gavin’s bottles.
Also on the counter is dawn dish detergent and a blue sponge. The faucet is clean and also shining like the island. Then there’s a sugar container with my Boston Red Sox coffee mug sitting on top. I normally don’t leave it on top of the sugar container, but I did today. Then there’s the coffee maker and toaster oven. We leave the oven unplugged. After the toaster oven is a curve in the counter leading to the gas stove. The stove is black and it gleams. After the stove is the stainless steel refrigerator. This is where I once stood and prayed and let tears fall freely. Gavin’s ultra sound pictures were underneath magnets.
My cigar smoke rises. Megan walked from the hallway into the kitchen area with a towel wrapped around her body. She is just out of the shower. She’s turning the lights off. She know’s I’m on the deck smoking my cigar and wants to let me have my moment. She doesn’t know my moment is to never forget. The shelf, the star, the butterflies, the sugar container and her walking in her towel. The home she’s made and the child we have; the sliding glass door and the deck that doesn’t matter leading to me, where I stand and where I know my place.