Her Counter Mug

That bottle of green oil,

same brand she’d always buy,

flashed in the supermarket aisle

and pulled a scent from memory high.

The crackle of garlic in her pan,

the warm breath of that small room,

where laughter always ran,

chasing away the gloom.

Her chipped ceramic mug still sat,

by the window, half-full of cold tea,

a tiny, quiet habitat

for all the talk she’d shared with me.

Steam long gone from the brew,

but the comfort lingered in the air,

a knowing I’d always run to,

a welcome always waiting there.