A Path had been made.
A section of the wood floor was paler, and slightly lower than the edges near the cabinets.
The cracks between the wide boards had melded together in a buttery smooth varnish
made of time and the footprints of my ancestors.
Maybe with a few more decades of children running to steal bacon and sweets,
women stirring pots and putting away dishes,
reaching to answer the phone,
crossing to the open window to holler, “Supper Time,”
Maybe with a few more decades
the well-trodden center of the kitchen floor will become a trench,
smooth like the boat on a fancy sailboat.