Refilling It

My mother left her thermos on the counter.

I keep refilling it—not because she's coming back.

We both know she won't.

But pouring new coffee over the old stain

in the cap, that thumbprint mark of her lipstick,

keeps something warm that would otherwise go slack.

There's a dent on the bottom,

a small collapse from some fall I'll never know.

She carried it everywhere, high and low,

the way I'm carrying it now,

both of us waiting for someone

to show up, to arrive, to somehow

make this make sense.

I know this is useless.

The coffee grows cold like it always does.

I'll pour it out and refill it because

I don't know how else to hold

the people who leave. Time is told

to heal, but I'm just going through the motions,

performing absence like it's presence,

like ritual could bring her back home.