While He’s Away in Tokyo

Mary Jane Gabrielsen

I have opened the window of change. I might have thought ahead; the furnace is on and the trees are losing their leaves. There is banana bread baking. The dog is asleep. His red toy is motionless. The stock market is toast.

A blue and white striped apron lies across the high-back pine chair. Plants in white pots are next to the sink. Neighbor ladies are chatting behind a high fence in back.

The trees are still with heavy, wet branches. The curtains in the house behind us are closed in daylight. Our refrigerator hums. Yellow placemats light up the dinner table.

The oven cools. The powdered sugar awaits sprinkling. The measuring cups and bowls float in bubbles.

In Japan, breakfast is warm. It’s tomorrow and I’m preparing yesterday’s sushi.