Kitchen Midnights

I set down my hot cup of coffee and leaned against the open window in the kitchen.

The stars flickered and played above, with the moon nowhere in sight. The cool breeze of the night caressed my cheeks as I took a deep breath of the fresh air. A few lamps illuminated the streets across from our building. The faint sound of wind brushed against the branches of nearby trees. A single car sped by and cats echoed in the distance scavenging for food.

I’ve always loved the sound of silence after midnight. It was the time when the entire world fell asleep, where I shared this world with no one or nothing but the thoughts running rampant in my head. I grew up spending nights in my grandparents’ kitchen, chatting with my uncle as he smoked next to the same window I looked out from. He never smoked anywhere near my grandpa, not out of fear of his scolding, but out of fear of disappointing him.

“A nasty habit is what it is,” my grandpa would repeat and drill in our ears. My uncle learned to smirk and either say nothing or promise to quit. He never did. But I never picked up the habit, a small thing that brought a smile to my grandpa’s face.

I remembered the nights I followed him to the kitchen when I was young. He loved to snack at random times, and I loved to keep him company. He chewed with his mouth open, one of the small things my grandma disliked. She tried to change this during their long years of marriage, with little success. I can’t forget the look on her face during dinner one time when I did the same. “Close your mouth when you chew. Don’t eat like your grandpa,” she scolded. My grandpa turned to me with a smirk and gave me a wink. He burped after eating a side of raw green onions - he always loved his greens. My grandma sat there with her jaw dropped and gave him a gentle smack on his arm. “Don’t do that at the table.”

“Better out than in,” he joked. To my grandma’s dismay, it was a small habit I picked up over the years, something my fiancée disliked herself. I’d repeat my grandpa’s famous words every time, and she’d sigh and say, “Well, keep it in regardless.”

I remembered the cold winter nights we’d spend in the kitchen together. My grandpa would make me his famous hot chocolate. A secret recipe he could never share. We’d slowly drink it together, me sitting on the cold kitchen floor and him sitting on the wooden chair next to the window. I’d ask him about random things: how he met grandma, how my mother and uncle were when they were young, and about his reckless adventures when he was my age. He’d laugh and tell me everything, repeating some stories and sharing new ones. I’d take sips of the delicious hot chocolate, my eyes wide and my ears keen as I listened to my grandpa talk. He loved to wave his hands about and do all these gestures when he told stories, and I loved to see and hear him talk all about them.

I remembered the nights when I couldn’t sleep. I was older back then, fresh into middle school, and struggling to fall asleep for a while. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and creep my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. One night, my grandpa startled me. He walked in to get a snack - well after midnight - and gave me a pat on my shoulder. He rummaged through the fridge, and I stood there, waiting for nothing in particular.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?” he asked me. I knew he sensed the worry in me. He read me like an open book whenever he looked into my eyes.

“Nothing, just a bad nightmare,” I lied. I couldn’t tell him about the countless nights I woke up and heard my parents screaming and fighting. It would break his heart to know my mom wasn’t as happy as she portrayed when we visited.

“I don’t think there’s something called a good nightmare, kiddo,” he bent down and gave me a wink, “Nightmares are just our deepest fears creeping up at us when we’re defenceless, but that’s all they are. They can’t hurt you, but you can hurt them.”

I smiled.

We didn’t end up going back to sleep directly. My grandpa sat with me and handed me a bag of chips, salt and vinegar, my favourite. We talked about random things as usual until he leaned back and stared outside the window and into the darkness of the sky.

“I love sitting here at night, listening to the random sounds outside and wondering who else is awake like me. Sometimes, it just feels like the world is mine and there’s no one else but me.” I never really understood what he meant back then, but I never forgot his words.

And I remembered the night I stood in my grandparents’ kitchen after losing my mother. It was the toughest week of my life. Something so far-fetched it never crossed my mind. The first three nights were the toughest. I never left my room. I’d cry myself to sleep and wonder how I’d ever be able to continue living without her. I refused to see or talk to anyone. I’d gaze out of the room’s window, sending words of comfort to her, knowing she’d be sad if she saw me cry as much as I did.

On the fourth night, I went to the kitchen. I’d slept little and eaten less. My hunger kept me up, and I rummaged through the fridge to find something quick to eat. I didn’t want anyone to hear or find me - just a quick in and out back to my room. But my grandpa stumbled upon me, another one of his random snack times. The grim look on my face told him all he needed to know. He didn’t say anything, only took some leftovers from that day’s dinner and sat on the wooden chair next to the window. He ate the cold food without reheating it, gazing out of the window and into the dark. I turned to leave but snatched one last look at him. He didn’t invite me to stay, but I did anyway.

I sat on the floor and ate my cold food like him. We didn’t say a word. We didn’t ask each other how we were doing or what was going to happen after. We just sat there in the kitchen at night and ate our food. The darkness outside the window attracted us like moths to the flames. The stars twinkled, and the silence soothed our souls. It was like we were the only two people in the world, and even if we didn’t say anything to the other, we acknowledged one another.

The next night, I came back to the kitchen after midnight, and I found Grandpa there. This time we talked. We shared fond memories of Mom. He told me how brave she was when she was my age, how she’d learned horseback riding and archery. She’d won numerous swimming competitions and delved into drawing. It warmed me up to see his face beam up at her mention. We made it our tradition to meet up after midnight until I left back home. It never felt the same for me to wander into our own kitchen after midnight. It was lonely and too silent. It missed the sweet aroma of his hot chocolate, the sound of his chewing and the laughs we muzzled in fear of waking up everyone.

But I had to learn to enjoy it by myself. My cup of coffee was done, as was my reminiscence. I took a final breath of the night air before closing the window. My fiancé stumbled into the kitchen, woken by my absence.

“Everything alright?” she asked. I nodded with a smile. I didn’t tell her I wanted some time to take a whiff of his scent lingering in this kitchen that we shared. That I needed to remember all the good times we had together and all the times he made me realise how alive I was. How I thought coming here after midnight would mean seeing him one last time, hearing him chew and snickering together with no witness but the stars.

There was something so soothing and heartwarming about sitting in a kitchen after midnight with nothing but a hot drink and your thoughts. It was one of my favourite habits and traditions, one I learned from him and one I’d share with my future kids and grandkids. It’s a realm so intimate that joins souls with a thread of silence.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to sleep after drinking that?” My fiancé reached for a glass cup to drink some water.

“I don’t think I will. How about I make us some hot chocolate, secret family recipe?” I winked, “We can sit here and chat for a while until I’m sleepy.”

She smiled, a beautiful smile, and nodded. I knew she was sleepy, but she wanted to keep me company, and I wanted to share this part of me with her. I gave her the cup of hot chocolate, the same way Grandpa used to give me, and ushered her to the wooden chair next to the window. I sat on the kitchen floor like I did when I was young, my cup snuggled between my palms and above my thighs. We chatted endlessly about random things and laughed together into the night.

“This feels nice. The silence is so peaceful and calming,” she said as she took another sip from her cup, “It’s like we’re the only ones awake in the whole world.”

I smiled, holding back the tears as I took another sip, “Like the world is ours.”

And we continued until the sun rose, opening up a new chapter.