A relic from the 50s like me solid and hard to move,
rounded corners on the cabinet and door metal shelves
that rotated out, eliminating food spoilage at the back of fixed racks
flimsy rails to hold bottles in the door jiggly metal ice trays
in a freezer that frosted over. It finally failed,
finally after more than a half century of service
I open the door one last time. In the dark kitchen.
its light has a warm glow. I rotate a shelf out and take a photo
metal gleaming like chrome on a vintage car, the vintage fridge!
The next day the Russian delivery guy arrives with the next refrigerator.
He’s a big man, wraps and belts the old thing to his sturdy frame
to carry down the stairs. Heavy, he grunts.
Soon he is back with the new fridge, which he carries as easily
as a big white box of poufy tissues. Not so heavy, I say.
This won’t last as long as the last one—they don’t make them like that.
We talk a little more about old refrigerators versus new as he pushes
the new thing into its corner. We talk about Russia versus America—
living here, that is, about how he likes living here but goes back
cause he likes his homeland every once in a while, and he likes
the quality of the old American-made fridges versus the skimpy
imports that he can carry up a flight of stairs without effort
and I think it’s not a bad thing to be an icon of durability despite age,
not bad for a machine entrusted with freshness and preservation.
