Not just because meals bring families together or that food is generally common ground for the ages. It’s because that’s where happiness settles.
Living rooms are places we watch TV. Bedrooms are where we sleep, rest when we are sick, or sulk when the world is mean. My kitchen is the focal point of our home. It’s full of light, open and welcoming. I have always loved my kitchen.
The kitchen window faces my backyard. It’s above the sink which is beautiful because I can watch the kids in the yard, stomping on marigolds, or as a football launches into my tomato plants. The large stock fence was never painted and is weathered from years of storms, snow, sun and gardening. I could look out that window to see the fruits of our labor as the cucumbers grew up the netting vine, the cantaloupe spread out as it grew flowers. The rich green grass boasted of the love, tenderness and attention we spent growing it.
Where the kitchen was the heart, the yard was the soul of our family.
I was standing at the kitchen sink, admiring the fresh red spots I could see from the window indicating I had tomatoes ready to pick. The juiciness would mean a thick, savory sauce would be on the menu for dinner tonight. I was counting the number of red spots I could see from the window in the sea of green plants when the phone rang. I sighed as I dried off my hands on the dish towel and took one more look out the window before I answered.
When you hear the words "your child over-dosed on heroin and is at the emergency room, come now because she might not make it" your life changes forever.
I spent countless days, nights, weeks and months trying to chase recovery for my daughter. By the time I realized that the one that should be chasing clean time, and a better life was my daughter and not I, my utopia in the yard had changed dramatically.
The tomatoes perished without the loving hand to water them and pick the ripened fruit. The mint grew wild, taking over and strangling the cilantro and basil. The cantaloupe's flowers wilted and died, not producing buds to grow into melons. The cucumbers shriveled and hung limply on the vine. The eggplant curled, and withered. Cooking with them now would produce a grainy, bitter, taste, much like the way I viewed my life.
Looking out the window in my broken-hearted kitchen, into the backyard with the tattered soul, was a reflection of our true selves.
My daughter would never be the same. My life would never be the same.
The love and attention I had put into my garden, I had also put into raising my daughter. No amount of love or begging would be bring either her or my garden back now.
Melanie Brayden
Melanie lives in Danvers, MA with her life partner, her three kids,
his two kids, two cats Diego and Blu and their dog Bud.
Her oldest child, her daughter, is a heroin addict.
Melanie began a blog, The Addict in My Basement,
to chronicle her struggles as the mother of an addict.
