Kitchen Queen

 << Kitchen Queen >>

Once, in the tender glow of childhood,

I drifted through the kitchen air-

Barefoot, bright-eyed, unrestrained,

Unburdened by a single care.

I dipped my fingers in simmering pots,

Stole pickles from their secret jars,

Whirled about like a little tempest,

Reaching upward for the morning stars.

Pots trembled in my reckless hands,

Glasses leapt to their demise-

A clattering symphony of clinks and cracks

Across the cold, unfeeling tiles.

My mother’s scolding rose in waves,

Yet carried warmth beneath-

For every shout was love concealed,

A shield, a soft and steady wreath.

But childhood slipped like golden sand

Through restless, hurried palms,

And life delivered me to another kitchen-

One that seldom offered calm.

Now I stand a crowned sovereign,

And yet a servant too,

Presiding over boiling tempests

Where duties gather like morning dew.

Milk bubbles over in rebellion,

Rice darkens in the pan-

The clock races past my breath,

Defeating every plan.

Burns blossom like crimson petals

Across the landscape of my skin,

While cuts inscribe silver stories

Of battles lost and won within.

From one end of the home I rush

To where familiar voices call-

My name stretched thin like fragile thread

Across the length of every wall.

Behind my husband’s hurried steps

I guard, I mend, I guide-

Behind my children’s wild delight

My weary arms remain spread wide.

My in-laws walk their distant paths,

Their needs a separate tune,

While neighbors stir their gossip pots

From sunrise until noon.

And when headaches hammer through my skull

And weariness floods my bones,

Still rise the whispers, sharp and soft-

The judgments, sighs, and tones.

No medal crowns my endless work,

No applause adorns my night-

No gleaming badge upon my chest

For keeping chaos right.

Yet when evening folds its wings

And shadows climb the wall,

My kitchen crown returns to me-

The queen who does not fall.

Some days my spirit aches to flee,

To break beyond the noise,

To rest beneath a gentle sky

And hear my own small voice.

To dwell where dishes never cry,

Where floors require no hands,

Where life is not a marathon

Of ceaseless, unmet demands.

Yet every dawn, the sun steps in

With soft, unwavering light-

It murmurs courage to my heart

And lifts me from the night.

I tie my apron as my armor,

I walk into the day,

And though the world may never see,

I conquer in my way.

So here’s to every kitchen queen-

To her fire, her tears, her grace,

To the steadfast strength she bears

In her tired, luminous face.

May gentler winds reach your doorstep,

May kindness warm your floor,

For you remain the unseen heartbeat

Behind every family’s door.