My family left yesterday morning

My family left yesterday morning.

I stood at the kitchen sink peeling an orange,

watching the juice drip down the drain

like it had somewhere to be.

Twenty minutes alone

and this is what I did with it—

stood in silence, letting the citrus oil

coat my fingers.

The light from the window hit the water in the sink

and made it look like something was happening,

like the quiet was doing something important.

I ate the orange slowly.

The segments came apart easily.

Each one was sweeter than the last.

This is the feeling I'm not supposed to admit—

that I needed them to leave.

That the relief of the empty house

tasted better than anything they could have made for me.

I rinsed my hands under the cold water.

The drain took the last of the peel.

The sink emptied itself.

I stood there for a while longer,

not doing anything,

just letting the quiet

be enough.