The chair scraped loud enough to break

The chair scraped loud enough to break

this morning’s silence—

a dull, familiar sound like a warning.

I sat slow, holding my breath,

wishing the kitchen wasn’t so empty,

wishing someone would call the line,

wishing grief wouldn’t sneak in through cracks

months after the silence

had settled like dust.

Her absence isn’t a clean cut,

a jagged line that only shows when

no one’s watching.

It comes scraping through the floorboards,

a crooked, stubborn sound

that doesn’t forget.

And I wonder if grief always waits

at the edge of quiet,

patient to catch you

when you think you’re done eating,

when your hands let go

of the last warm cup.