Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The kettle remembers a hand that isn't mine, its whistle tuned to someone else's morning. I pour anyway, and the steam rises like a question I have forgotten how to ask.

Three spoons in the drawer, each a different silver. A saltshaker shaped like a small lighthouse. The window holds an hour of pale light and lets it go without ceremony, the way the tenant before me must have done.

I learn the cupboards by the sound they make — one sighs, one protests, one keeps its counsel. The fridge hums a lullaby in a language nobody translated for me.

Outside, a pigeon rehearses its one good note. I eat standing up, reading the back of the jar, and the kitchen, forgiving as an aunt, sets another place I will not use.

Night comes. The kettle cools. I rinse the cup and set it upside down so the room can dream without me in it.