Pale yellow paint and olive-green trim
topped with a rust roof was my father’s
first home after the divorce I cannot remember.
The beige linoleum square cut out
right after entering the front door smelled
of lemon scented pine sol and Hanford
power plant dust, a shiny waxed coating
with spare strands of grass floating
between the floor and baseboard.
Father’s black work boots sat upright
and unlaced on the burgundy rug, ready
for the next morning where he’d wake
hours before my brother and me.
Blake’s room too far to hear the tightening
of laces and the click of the bolt locking.
My father’s shadowed silhouette
moved across the porch light that peered
through my bedroom window blinds.
White envelopes with clear wispy windows
for my father’s name line in evenly spaced
out rows across the matte and grainy granite
kitchen bar top just under the golden framed man
praying before his bread and bowl.
Prepackaged saffron rice sticks
to the stove leaving a yellow echo
of slime after being scraped at
with paper towel wrapped around my fingernail.
A hot water rag and dawn dish soap
burn the cracks in my hands
as it cleans the residue of dinner.
The whiff of fluffy white foam from
barley beer coats the just cleaned sink.
Clink, clink, click in the garbage can
under the sink. We do not talk
about the mold slowly growing there.