The pot remembers
every hand that has lifted its lid
expecting steam.

Tonight,
it holds only water
learning the shape of silence.

Mother measures
another cup into tomorrow,
stirring slowly
as if time itself
might thicken.

The spoons wait
without complaint.

Outside,
a neighbor laughs,
and the scent of frying onions
crosses the fence
like a letter
addressed to the wrong house.

The moon lays
a pale coin
on our doorstep.

No one bends to claim it.

By morning,
our names are still written
inside empty bowls

proof that even absence
expects to be remembered.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Spencer Liao on Unsplash