The Polished Surface

Cousin’s place, all pale grays

and sharp edges. Glass tables

gleaming, reflecting

the cold light from the window.

I watched my own small face

in the polished dark,

a ghost hovering

above a coaster I didn't dare

move. She offered coffee,

but the mug felt alien

in that perfect room.

I gripped it tight, careful

not to leave a ring.

Later, scrolling through old photos,

Grandma’s kitchen.

The table, scarred with knife marks,

coffee stains, the faint print

of a child’s sticky hand.

Stacks of mail, half-finished puzzles,

a bowl of wilting fruit.

No polished surfaces, just the worn

grain of pine, holding

the weight of years,

the mess of living.

And suddenly,

my cousin’s perfect, silent space

felt hollow,

like a promise unkept,

a shell without the sea.