The ghost in the kitchen

I was buttering the toast,

and my hand knew exactly

where to press,

exactly how much pressure,

exactly how to let the butter pool

in the burnt corners,

exactly how long to wait

before the butter started to melt

into the charred parts.

I didn't learn this

from a recipe.

I didn't learn this

from anywhere conscious.

I learned this

from watching someone else's hands

do the exact same thing

at the exact same table,

in the exact same kitchen,

years and years ago.

And now my hands

are doing it too,

and I'm not thinking about it,

and my hands know,

and the toast knows,

and the butter knows.

The ghost in the kitchen

is their hands inside my hands.

I set the plate down,

and I sit alone

at the table,

and I eat the toast

the way they taught me,

without teaching me,

without saying anything,

just by doing it

every morning

until it was in my body

like a scar,

like a memory,

like a haunting.

I don't know

if I'm remembering

or if I'm them,

or if there's any difference

anymore.

The butter pools in the burnt corners,

and I keep eating.