the kitchen window

I remember my mother standing at the sink
staring out the small kitchen
window with a plant on the sill,
looking down the road, wondering
where my father was, if he was coming
home. who was he with, what woman,
what house or bar was he in, being kissed.
making love to someone else.
how she stared out that window
waiting for his car to appear,
smoking, running the water over her
hands, a dish, a glass.
I think about all the wives in
the world who are staring out their own windows
wondering where their loved ones
are and if they will ever come back.

I wash my hands, pour water on
the small green plant
then turn away. it's late.