Aftershock

The call was bad.

The words were worse.

My hands didn't know yet,

didn't understand

that I needed them steady.

I filled the kettle.

The lid was still off.

I poured the water in

and reached for the tea,

but my hands were already

moving without me,

already knowing

something I hadn't

admitted yet.

The leaves spilled.

They scattered across the counter

like something had shattered,

like something fragile

had broken into pieces.

I looked at them—

the leaves, loose and dark,

spreading across the white surface

in a pattern I didn't make,

that my trembling hands

had made without permission.

The body knows.

The body always knows

before the mind catches up.

It shakes.

It spills.

It says,

I cannot hold this,

I cannot keep it contained,

I cannot pretend

that nothing has broken.

I tried to gather the leaves.

My fingers wouldn't work right.

So I left them there,

a map of where the shock

had traveled first,

proof that I felt it

even before I could admit

that the call had changed

something in me

that I can't put back.