Our love isn’t a palm-fringed beach,
Or to the moon and back.
It’s not a fine dining restaurant,
Or a romantic film, all white and black.

Our love is at the kitchen island.

It’s you, some bills, the checkbook,
making sure we still have heat.
It’s me, a full calendar, a pen,
caring for our whole fleet.

It’s you, a note on the tabletop,
Doodling a man on a run.
It’s me, finding it and smiling,
Sitting to write in the early sun.

Our love is at the kitchen island.

It’s you, and games with the girls,
Cards and dice at play.
It’s me overseeing homework,
And hearing about their days.

It’s you working late at night,
Laptop and elbows on wood.
It’s me ruffling your hair,
‘If you can turn in soon that’d be good.’

Our love is at the kitchen island.

It’s us, the island our anchor,
When we’re two ships passing by.
Meet me here, dry land for a bit,
A kiss hello, then goodbye.

It’s us, and pancakes and coffee mugs,
On a winter weekend day,
Sticky syrup and red raspberries,
And nothing to do but stay.

And it’s us, a glass of wine at dusk,
at the end of a rough week,
Maybe bad news, or worse, a loss,
Holding hands, no words to speak.

Our love is at the kitchen island.

It’s us, and a hundred Taco Tuesdays,
Beans and rice to the dog below,
And laughs shared with our daughters,
The best moments that we’ll know.

School projects, thank you notes,
flowers and birthday cake,
Cooking prep and so much mess,
And a million plans to make.

It’s all unfolded at these stools,
In this kitchen, our home’s true core,
It’s a modern day love story,
And it’s ours to write—

And each day, to write some more.

 

Jessie Keppeler
A Maine native, Jessie migrated down the coast to Boston after college, and it’s been home ever since. She has lived in various corners of the city — from Allston and Brighton to Newbury Street and then Jamaica Plain — before settling in Brookline with her husband and three daughters. As much as she loves home now, she also likes to leave occasionally: recent family travels include Italy, Belize, and Washington D.C. Jessie writes with a cat curled up nearby and a dog at her feet. And a cup of coffee. Always.

1 COMMENT

  1. I ❤️ this! Maybe this is why we are all connected to our “ family table” that has been passed back and forth among us. This is true love….!

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