Final Delivery

The subject line said We'll miss cooking with you

which is what you say

when nobody asked.

Four months since I canceled.

I was eating cereal over the sink

when I did it, which felt right—

the spoon going around

while I clicked through the screens

that asked are you sure.

I was sure.

The email came at 11:43 on Tuesday

to confirm it was done,

a formality arriving late

like a handshake after the car pulls away.

The recipe card is still on the counter.

Laminated. Creamy Tuscan chicken. Serves two.

A brown stain in the corner

from something I did wrong in October

when I was still attempting things.

I should throw it out.

I won't, for a while.

It's specific in a way

that nothing new is yet.