I've Stood on That Before

The contractor peeled back a corner—

just to show Marlene the water damage—

and there it was underneath.

Yellow and brown.

A pattern from a different decade.

Chevrons, or something like chevrons.

Dusty and intact.

Like it had been waiting.

Marlene said oh, I forgot about that one.

She didn't seem bothered.

The contractor said they'd pull the whole thing.

I said nothing.

But I knew that pattern.

Not from Marlene's—

she's been here since the eighties

and I've been in this kitchen

maybe four times—

but from somewhere.

Specifically.

Not the way you recognize a decade

or a style.

The way you recognize

a room you've stood in.

I spent the afternoon

helping her wrap dishes in newspaper

and thinking about it.

Yellow and brown.

Chevrons.

Where have I stood on that.

What kitchen.

Whose.

I couldn't find it.

It's still not there.

I drove home thinking about it,

got into my apartment,

stood on my own floor—

plain wood, I've lived here six years—

and tried to remember.