My grandmother’s kitchen

I hear the sounds of grandmother’s kitchen
Before I even smell the aromas she creates
I walk on in between thin wooden door frames
The floor of sand from the South China Sea
Cushions the soles of my broad flip flop feet

Chickens, ducks, maybe a cat or two
Run free pecking, clucking, mewing too
The chaos of animal chatter harmonise
With human laughter, we high on the rafters
Above grandmother’s sandy kitchen floor

When I first came to grandmother’s house
I never understood the things I saw
For a well, man-made, sat, room in the middle
Of her kitchen’s grand sandy floor, with
A netted cover to stop us falling in, like a door

I watched grandmother work, every move she
Made, made up for the lack of words she said
Drawing water with a bucket and some rope
Boiling a cast iron kettle on a charcoal stove
Steam filling my nostrils, eyes eating all I saw

Grandmother’s kitchen wasn’t cosy or welcoming
It was bare bones, utilitarian, uninspiring
It did the job, much like she did, with no fuss
Feeding mouths always hungry, always unsmiling
The sandy floor, the deep well, things of ancient
History, where generations gathered in unity.

I don’t have a photo of my grandmother’s actual house or kitchen. It’s one of the houses on this historic site in Melaka. Previously called Heeren Street it’s now named Jonker Walk. So this photo, taken in 2019 is as close to how it would have looked when my grandmother was alive.

©alifelesslived

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