A few weeks ago, the last of my father's counter top appliances went kaput. It was an unnecessarily large microwave. I used it from time to time to heat up frozen dinners for him, or to reheat my own leftovers. He used it a whole lot more than I ever did, specifically to reheat coffee. He'll brew his little hotel-sized pot of coffee every morning around six-thirty, pour it into a cup, place a lid on it, then let it sit on the kitchen table. About two hours later I'm up and moving around, and that cup is still on the table. He'll reheat it before 9:30, then leave it covered on the table. Sometimes he will reheat it two or three times, thirty seconds to a minute each, in the span of an hour. I don't know what the proper temperature he desires for his coffee, but most of the time, whatever it is, is not it. So he puts a lid on it and just...walks away.
My parents moved into this apartment fifteen years ago. I was living three time zones away at the time, unable to help move what few belongings they took over from the house. Two of the biggest items they moved are still here today - a six foot, maybe seven foot tall China cabinet, and an oak desk I used to want for myself way back when. The cabinet has become a picture haven of sorts for my father, finding older photos of my mother and us doing random family things. The desk has a collection of bills, notebooks, writing instruments, stamps, paper clips and other typical things one might find inside the drawers of one. My father will do his daily pills at the desk, filling up a mini cup before he eats meals in the kitchen.
The kitchen has held a variety of counter top accessories in these fifteen years. One of the microwaves before this most recent one was the most frustrating thing I probably encountered. Any button I would press I would just get a beep beep, and then nothing happened. Popcorn button? Beep beep. Thirty second reheat? Beep beep. Start? Beep beep. Whatever the secret code was to start the damn thing, I was too much of an imbecile to figure it out. Thankfully, that one eventually croaked too.
Aside from his current coffee pot, there used to be a normal-sized one as well as a single cup maker. My mother grew tired of the single cup maker, so she tossed it, but still kept the k-cup pod holder, which now rests (and rusts) in the garage.
The old toaster oven had to go too. Someone decided he was going to heat up a frozen pizza, and instead of placing it on the rack, put it on a microwaveable plate. The plate predictably melted onto the bottom burner, giving the air that nice cooking plastic smell. The plate was blue, and the melted goo that cooled off was blue. He claimed it was foil, but now that specific blue plate I can no longer find in the apartment. Alas, we replaced the toaster oven. Little bit smaller, but works okay. Probably can't fit a plate in there.
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This past week, my father's neighbor across the hall had to move out. The neighbor's in his mid nineties, and was probably struggling with day to day living. He mentioned he was moving in with his daughter, which is probably for the best. Over this past summer, sometimes when he was sitting on his little patio space, my father would go out and speak with him. Dad would never share with me what they spoke about, and I never asked. But now that connection is no longer. Another empty space. I like to think he's getting used to these empty spaces, even if some of them get replaced.