Sunday Lunch
(Written December 2020, 9 months into the Covid 19 global pandemic)
Oscar Peterson’s Hymn to Freedom got its turn on my Spotify playlist recently while I was in my kitchen making a hearty beef stew. I lowered my head to catch the rising waft of aromas coming from our big red pot. Not bad. Not bad at all. Happy with my efforts I placed the lid down carefully and eyed the bottle of red sat on the kitchen cabinet. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had the entire place to myself. I hadn’t been having many days with just myself recently so this solitude was welcome - and needed. I poured a velvety curved stream of red into a Waterford Crystal wine glass, a splash of Spanish vino into an exquisitely sparkly piece of famous Irish glass. The decadence! I love being alone with a posh Irish wine glass sometimes. As the song hit its rousing crescendo my heart soared with it, the reverb surged up into my throat and a few tears started blinking in my eyes. Jesus Christ- where was this coming from? I wasn’t pms-ing… A rising wave of unexpected hot emotion or (maybe delayed shock) followed the tapping of the piano keys -beat for beat. I was crying. What a year. Jesus Christ. What a crazy year….
I had company at my kitchen table, all of a sudden, on this most curious morning. One after the other in they came, uninvited! The events and feelings of the previous nine extraordinary months were suddenly sitting at my kitchen table, rendering me useless. I sat down. Fear, introduced herself first, sitting at the top of the table, vying for most attention (as is her habit) “Don’t ever forget me” she announced in a very controlled voice- “I was first through the door remember, when this shit show kicked off in March”- and by God I’ll be the last to leave!” She splayed her hands out and clenched either end of the table like the director of a company at some tense board meeting. Enter Chaos- who flung herself across the room knocking all and sundry off the table including my nice glass of red. She was shouting in a near manic state, twirling around the table, eyes out on stilts, and changing direction every two seconds. “I’m stopping the whole damn world, I’m upending everything you know to be true and normal and know this- I’ll hang around to lessening degrees for a helluva long time- so get used to living with me” she cackled deliriously. Change showed up next. She was sitting at a small round table (for one) encased in a Perspex box at the other end of the kitchen. She cut a lonely and weird figure. “This is how we do things now m’ love,” she said through a clinched smile that hid her lips into one red stern line - forget about past notions of carefree dining with friends – that will take a lifetime to come back- if ever!”
My stew bubbled over in to a great big frothy mess and caught the flames of the gas quickly bringing me back to myself. I leapt to the oven in one hop and turned off the gas. Fear, Chaos and Change took no notice, they were deep in action now, back and forth to each other, getting louder and louder. I couldn’t hear my lovely music anymore. I cleaned the mess. It dawned on me that I would have to tend to such normal things during this pandemic, life has to go on. With my back turned to the door, squatting to pick up the pieces of my broken glass, a gentle tapping on the door turned me round on my heels. It was a gentle, firm but constant sound. Was there one final guest stood outside? Another emotion coming to join me in my kitchen? I’m not sure I wanted to meet any more.
A faint yellow light was coming through the gap of where the door and floor met. I pulled down the handle and opened the door slowly. nothing there. “Hey”, came a tiny voice. “Down here, I’m down here”. I lowered my head and there she was. She looked up at me, then peeped her head round the door. While doing so a very warm and huge comforting light started to flood my kitchen in a warm buttercup yellow bath. The others were silenced by the power of this very small guest.
“Good afternoon”
“I’m Hope"
“Please make space for me”
I gave her my seat.
