Sometimes you need a special place to hide out for a while. Where are your special places? This is a tribute to one of mine.
photo by ldyck
In My Aunty's Kitchen
I climb three stairs to my aunty's sunshine-yellow kitchen. It's my sanctuary in troubled times. Before school, I sit on the floor between the door and the fridge. There is a table. There are chairs. But, in the morning, I always sit on the floor.
I watch my aunty swirl around in her kitchen, puttering here, puttering there. But she's not too busy, never too busy for me. She doesn't talk about idle things—not my aunty Lil. "Leanne, do you believe in heaven?"
Of course, I do. I go to church every Sunday. She knows this. Her question isn't really a question. It's more like an invitation to a discussion.
"Who gets to go to heaven?"
I answer immediately. "Everyone."
"Everyone?"
"Yes, there's good in everyone. So everyone gets to go."
"It must be rather crowded up there, Leanne. How does everyone fit?"
This question isn't as easy to answer. "They just do. Our bodies don't go. Only our spirit. Spirits don't take up much room."
Aunty Lil doesn't pick easy questions. It's like my brain is a tool she's sharpening.
I'd rather stay sitting on that floor, answering all of Aunty Lil's challenging questions than go to school, but I can't. I have to face being ostracized, being bullied by my classmates. I have to be judged by my teachers. I learn to survive by keeping quiet and learning to be invisible.
I return to the sunshine-yellow kitchen at noon to eat my lunch—on a chair, at the table.
Seven people live in this house—Aunty Lil, Uncle Hazen, and my cousins. Sometimes a cousin pops in and out, but mostly it's just me and Aunty Lil.
"I have never seen anyone eat so fast," Aunty Lil says. It's an observation. She's simply commenting on my eating habits.
At home, her sister, my mom, would say, "Slow down. Don't eat so fast."
But I never hear that here. Is that the difference between a mother and an aunt? An aunt can only comment, not direct.
An apple. A sandwich. I eat fast because I'm always running late. School is only a hop, skip, and jump away. A few houses down, on the same street. But somehow, I'm always running late. Maybe it would make more sense to eat lunch at school, but—. Where would I sit? All the other kids have been eating together for years. They know who sits where. I'd have to figure that out by myself. No one would help me. And I'm not good at figuring that stuff out. If I made a mistake, they wouldn't be kind. And what if someone stole my lunch? I'd starve. No one learns well on an empty stomach. Learning is hard enough for me without hunger pains.
On the wall, above the table, two ceramic smiling sunflowers oversee my meal. Each has a message. The first: Swap a smile. Trade some cheer. The second: Let's be happy while we're here.
Here, at this table, is where I belong. So I have to wolf down my meal.
After school, I venture further into my aunt's home and flick on the TV set. I turn the channel to my favourite show—Hogan's Heroes. I use the Christmas present I got a few months ago, a tape recorder, to record this episode—like all the others. I only have one cassette, so I record over it—over and over again.
Voices drift in from the kitchen. Aunty Lil is talking to... My dad? He must have gotten off early from work.
"Leanne, it's time to go," my dad calls.
"I'm tapping," I reply, but I know he won't wait, and I don't want to ask him to; that would be rude, and I can't make a scene. I don't want to make him look bad—or me. And I don't want to have to walk all the way home. It's still kind of cold out, and it might snow or rain. It doesn't look like it, but it could. So I heave a heavy sigh and switch off my tape recorder and the TV.
In the car, Dad asks, "Do your cousins watch that show with you?"
"I think they have hockey practice."
"Your Uncle Hazen saw active duty in World War Two. The war wasn't and isn't a joke to him."
I know where he's heading, and I try to cut him off. "They don't mind. And besides, Uncle Hazen doesn't come home from work until later."
"From now on, you walk straight home from school."
"Why? They told me I could watch whatever I want."
"Leanne, straight home." By his tone, I know this isn't a discussion. He's giving me direction.
So I'm forced to break my addiction cold turkey. No more Hogan's Heroes. Just like that.
The next morning, I sit on the floor between the door and the fridge in my aunty's sunshine-yellow kitchen. It's my sanctuary in troubled times. It's my oasis from the direction I receive at home and the ostracization and bullying and judgments I receive at school.
Written in May 2026
On this blog in JuLY
Between and Underneath, for children 4 to 8 years of age, examines the themes of directional concepts and childhood anxiety.
