With her door open she could see the fridge.
It was only fifteen feet away when her
stomach would start to snore so loud
she would wake.
An extreme hallway tunnel vision ensued.
I imagine her sitting up and turning
toward the safe full of leftovers.
Her very own midnight oasis,
and whatever dreams may come
this would be the feeder of those dreams.
So she would walk slow and steady
invoking the creaks that have been
in the hallway floor for years.
She, with one eye half open,
was like a foraging bear.
She didn’t need the glasses
which always left two pock marks
on the bridge of her nose.
This was a nightly walk of faith…
Of hopes of aged goulash and
Michigan small curd cottages…
Of a pickle or salmon from a can…
Of cold hamburg gravy.
In this midnight catatonic state,
I would imagine her parallel arms
stretched before her like a zombie.
She never wondered if the fridge
light was on inside that closed door.
All that mattered was the light
which cascaded down on the
ala cart, potpourri diversity
that was the fridge.
Her one eye was wide open now.
There she would hunch in the
glow while her backlit body
told all beneath her nitie.
Then the bobble head
Hawaiian, grass skirted, would
dance a little under its veneer
of grease and dust from a top
of the island fridge.
It was there the midnight
Mouse would twitch her nose,
whiskers brushing the
cool air and nibble
her way back to bed.
(For my mother, her many quirks I do adore.)
>So descriptive that I felt like I was there with her, looking over her shoulder for something to midnight feast on.