The Gravy Boat, After

The last boat, ceramic,

sat rinsed in the sink.

A faint ghost of sage

and something thicker,

a grease ring dried like a stain

on the curve.

My hands scrubbed clean,

but the house still held

the careful silence

of your laugh, Uncle,

when Aunt Sue

almost mentioned him.

The way you turned,

so quick, to the cranberry,

a small, red wall.

The water ran,

then stopped.

Just the hum of the fridge

and the memory of what

we didn't taste.