Voices

I sit alone
in a kitchen bright and speckled
with sunspots
flickering across the formica.

I reach into the depths
and shallows of my memory
as I struggle to recall
whether I am out of cinnamon
or is it nutmeg?

I sigh,
pulling myself up
from the wooden chair that holds me
every morning as I sip my still-hot coffee.
Walking towards the cabinet
where the spices reside,
I reach up.


I'm startled suddenly
by the sound of voices
clamoring up from the basement;
men’s voices.

I do not recognize them at first,
as I stand frozen,
one hand reaching for the cinnamon,
or was it nutmeg?

The voices are my sons'.
Sometime overnight they grew
and grew up
into young men
and the laughing, playful voices
of my little boys
disappeared.

I smile to myself in recognition,
but realize that soon
these voices will be gone, too,
as my sons move away to new lives,
new places,
away from the sun speckled kitchen
and the cabinets
where the spices reside.

And me
sitting in the wooden chair that holds me.

Submitted by Donna K Hrkman

About the Author:

"I am a married woman with three sons, ages 21, 19, and 15, so you can tell where the inspiration for my poem came from. :-) I am an artist, currently designing and creating hooked wool rugs. I love color and design and have always been an artist, so I suppose my venture into writing will be an extension of my creativity. I've won the Erma Bombeck Essay Contest twice, and earned an Honorable Mention once. I just won an Honorable Mention in the local newspaper's Short Story contest, chosen from over 800 entries. I've published a few articles in Rug Hooking Magazine, too. So I have been writing for a while, but just starting to let other people read it!" (and if you're interested in taking a look at her other creative outlets take a look at Blue Ribbon Rugs