What the Kitchen Says

I notice the coffee maker first,

this new sleek thing in the corner,

chrome and deliberate,

not like the old one

that was always one button away from breaking.

She's using it.

Actually using it.

The counters are different too—

or maybe they're the same,

but the crumbs are staying now,

not being wiped away

in that automatic gesture

I used to watch her do

while we talked about nothing.

There's a plant on the sill

that's actually alive.

I don't want to say

that she's given up,

but something has shifted,

something in the way

the kitchen sits there

showing me how she's living now,

what she's decided to keep,

what she's stopped fighting.

The coffee brews.

It smells like money,

like time,

like someone who's finally decided

that some things

are worth the investment,

even if they break,

even if they don't last.

I'm reading too much

into the placement of a new appliance,

into crumbs left on the counter

like a small rebellion

against the woman

I used to know

who couldn't sit down

until everything was clean.

She pours the coffee.

She's not apologizing.