Things I Told the Unlit Stove

How it begins

BEFORE

I used to know when an onion was ready from the doorway.

The kitchen lifted its small flag of sweetness.

Now I stand close and watch the edges.

The stove says nothing.

It has always been good at waiting for a person to turn something on.

INSTRUCTIONS

Everyone has a suggestion.

Lemon. Coffee. A stronger lemon.

I thank them with the face I once used for customers who wanted their soup both hotter and less hot.

Under the sink, the cleaning cloth keeps its own counsel.

I envy the simple dignity of a thing that does not need to report improvement.

ONION

I cut it slowly.

The layers fall into the bowl like letters removed from a word I still know how to say.

My eyes water.

There is comfort in a familiar response the body has not asked permission to keep.

I am allowed to miss the rest.

VISITOR

Jo brings bread and does not ask whether I can smell it.

She asks where the plates are.

This is how a room becomes bearable: someone needs an ordinary answer.

We eat beside the unlit stove.

The crust makes a brave, ridiculous noise.

For a moment I laugh before I decide whether laughter is appropriate.

LATER

Water begins its argument with heat.

The pan clicks.

A spoon touches the side of a bowl three times.

There are ways to recognize a kitchen without asking it to become the kitchen you lost.

I tell the stove this.

I tell it I am tired of being an example.

Then I turn the smallest ring to the smallest flame.

Jo is coming back with tomatoes.

I have not decided what we are making.

It is a relief, having one thing that does not yet need a name.

I leave one plate beside the other, not because hunger has become simple, but because company need not wait for it to be.