The Empty Mug

My father was eating cereal at 7 AM on Saturday

and I understood, standing in the doorway,

that he'd been eating breakfast alone for weeks.

The bowl was in the sink.

The milk carton sat on the counter, unlidded.

There was no second mug.

Her coffee mug—the one with the small chip

she wouldn't replace—wasn't there.

He looked up at me and didn't say anything.

We both understood that I'd seen something

I wasn't supposed to see,

that I'd walked in on a routine

that had become unbearable.

Upstairs, the bedroom door was closed.

It had been closed when I arrived.

I hadn't thought about it until now,

until I saw the empty space beside him

at the table, the place where

her breakfast never happened anymore.

I sat down. He pushed the cereal box toward me

like that might fix it, like breakfast

could be a family event if I just participated,

if I just sat here and pretended

this was normal, that she was sleeping in,

that she wasn't upstairs with the door closed

at 7 AM on a Saturday morning.