Cartography of a Kitchen

The window above the sink keeps weather like a slow ledger — first the magnolias, then the long grey rains, then nothing but the neighbor's chimney exhaling its small daily ghost.

A pear forgets itself on the counter. Its bruise widens into a continent. I have lived here long enough to know which floorboard answers back, which drawer pretends not to hear.

The kettle wakes the room with a sound like a held breath letting go, and steam climbs the cabinets the way ivy climbs a chapel — patient, unhurried, certain of its arrival.

Someone I used to be left a coffee ring on the table in the shape of a small planet. I trace its orbit with my thumb, already forgiving the orbit, already forgetting the planet's name.