Alexandra Thompson, Grade 11
UWC Mostar
Being a kitchen, people come and go; but being a space, there are certain things that remain beyond furniture, people, and weather.
One gaze out the kitchen window displays street lights strung around the city like fairy lights at Christmas in a position of careful placement. It’s beautiful that this arrangement has taken centuries and has withstood the horrors of war, yet its character remains, distinctly existing without apology. This character seems to have drifted through the kitchen window. Somehow, the bacteria-infested but somehow safe kitchen has acted as a petri dish for such delicate sentiment.
Through this same window, lightning flashes set the world alight for just long enough to become enamored. Rain pelts the window; your glass barrier of safety remains intact. You feel protected, and you don’t feel scared, despite what your adrenaline-filled blood dictates to you. The electricity might die for a short amount of time, but the habitual lightning is constant in providing some illumination. A glimpse into the wilderness of the hills, the phenomenon somehow provides a new lens with which you can peer through life. The natural beauty of the Mostarian hills is no secret, but inside, you feel curiosity anew.
It casts a light on the Cross you swore you would hike to about six months ago. Sometimes, nature can be shameful. Sometimes, you have to cast a shadow in order to shine a light.
Here, in this kitchen, I have made difficult phone calls home. Here, I have needed someone to pick up, and they didn’t come through. Here, I have felt defeated by many things in life.
Sometimes the kitchen’s light is the last to go out at night when the rest of the forty-person residence is in a deep sleep, but you’re far from it.
I have sat and stared at the fridge, not knowing what to do.
I have begged my parents to allow me to come back home and give up on my dream.
I have felt the distance between bodies and comfort, and cried my heart out here after the calls, knowing that regardless of the effort I dedicate to some relationships, some things just won’t work.
I have felt ties loosen and slip inevitably out of reach, and felt a deep pain that this causes.
Yet, I have also felt ties be strung tighter than ever in this kitchen.
In this kitchen, I have felt a bond form like no other.
I have sat with friends and had a poorly-made cup of tea, but one that made the biggest difference.
I have run out of milk and burnt my tongue, drinking my vital morning coffee intake in order to stay somewhat alert for the day ahead.
I have met the cleaning lady and trod lightly in a spasmodic dance on the floor, which was just cleaned so as not to dirty the floor and hurriedly reach the water tap before sprinting to class in a panicked fashion.
I have simply just existed.
I am convinced that this kitchen houses the world’s loudest kettle, with a pace of water-boiling that has taught me patience.
It’s a rest center after crawling up the three floors to the fourth floor after a day when energy supplies are running dangerously low.
It’s an un-skateable ice-rink when wet.
Its door is a gateway to a place of solace, despite the noise and happenings ongoing.
It’s a social hub for the second and third-floor inhabitants who want some space but decide against the common room. In fact, I think this kitchen gives the common room a run for its money, envying its ability to bond people because of its small, enclosed space that somehow does not force such bonds, but gently encourages them.
Without this kitchen, the coincidence of encountering a floormate and sparking otherwise would-not-have-been-had conversations would have sadly not existed altogether.
The pungent smell of the bin, despite removing it from the room, has created its own presence, and now exists as an independent existence that cannot be removed from the room; this fact I figured out after several kitchen duties. Even after many separate stress-induced cleaning sessions, I could not remove the scent. Yet, as my roommate told me, it’s amazing the things you can get used to after a little while.
Regardless, I have created many midnight noodle meals for friends and had conversations of depth and intellect, as well as goofing around in the kitchen.
The kitchen has created a space where, despite the various mysterious substances, you feel a sense of welcoming. This sort of box with a sink, cupboards, a fridge, and some other kitchen utensils has brought such joy by just being. It is here where I have learned to just take in the moment through pain, happiness, worry, stress, and connection.
One gaze out the kitchen window displays street lights strung around the city like fairy lights at Christmas in a position of careful placement. It’s beautiful that this arrangement has taken centuries and has withstood the horrors of war, yet its character remains, distinctly existing without apology. This character seems to have drifted through the kitchen window. Somehow, the bacteria-infested but somehow safe kitchen has acted as a petri dish for such delicate sentiment.
Through this same window, lightning flashes set the world alight for just long enough to become enamored. Rain pelts the window; your glass barrier of safety remains intact. You feel protected, and you don’t feel scared, despite what your adrenaline-filled blood dictates to you. The electricity might die for a short amount of time, but the habitual lightning is constant in providing some illumination. A glimpse into the wilderness of the hills, the phenomenon somehow provides a new lens with which you can peer through life. The natural beauty of the Mostarian hills is no secret, but inside, you feel curiosity anew.
It casts a light on the Cross you swore you would hike to about six months ago. Sometimes, nature can be shameful. Sometimes, you have to cast a shadow in order to shine a light.
Here, in this kitchen, I have made difficult phone calls home. Here, I have needed someone to pick up, and they didn’t come through. Here, I have felt defeated by many things in life.
Sometimes the kitchen’s light is the last to go out at night when the rest of the forty-person residence is in a deep sleep, but you’re far from it.
I have sat and stared at the fridge, not knowing what to do.
I have begged my parents to allow me to come back home and give up on my dream.
I have felt the distance between bodies and comfort, and cried my heart out here after the calls, knowing that regardless of the effort I dedicate to some relationships, some things just won’t work.
I have felt ties loosen and slip inevitably out of reach, and felt a deep pain that this causes.
Yet, I have also felt ties be strung tighter than ever in this kitchen.
In this kitchen, I have felt a bond form like no other.
I have sat with friends and had a poorly-made cup of tea, but one that made the biggest difference.
I have run out of milk and burnt my tongue, drinking my vital morning coffee intake in order to stay somewhat alert for the day ahead.
I have met the cleaning lady and trod lightly in a spasmodic dance on the floor, which was just cleaned so as not to dirty the floor and hurriedly reach the water tap before sprinting to class in a panicked fashion.
I have simply just existed.
I am convinced that this kitchen houses the world’s loudest kettle, with a pace of water-boiling that has taught me patience.
It’s a rest center after crawling up the three floors to the fourth floor after a day when energy supplies are running dangerously low.
It’s an un-skateable ice-rink when wet.
Its door is a gateway to a place of solace, despite the noise and happenings ongoing.
It’s a social hub for the second and third-floor inhabitants who want some space but decide against the common room. In fact, I think this kitchen gives the common room a run for its money, envying its ability to bond people because of its small, enclosed space that somehow does not force such bonds, but gently encourages them.
Without this kitchen, the coincidence of encountering a floormate and sparking otherwise would-not-have-been-had conversations would have sadly not existed altogether.
The pungent smell of the bin, despite removing it from the room, has created its own presence, and now exists as an independent existence that cannot be removed from the room; this fact I figured out after several kitchen duties. Even after many separate stress-induced cleaning sessions, I could not remove the scent. Yet, as my roommate told me, it’s amazing the things you can get used to after a little while.
Regardless, I have created many midnight noodle meals for friends and had conversations of depth and intellect, as well as goofing around in the kitchen.
The kitchen has created a space where, despite the various mysterious substances, you feel a sense of welcoming. This sort of box with a sink, cupboards, a fridge, and some other kitchen utensils has brought such joy by just being. It is here where I have learned to just take in the moment through pain, happiness, worry, stress, and connection.
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