The groove in the laminate worn to a shine

The groove in the laminate, worn to a shine

from years of plates set down in exactly that line—

I thought that was the shape of an evening meal,

the glow of the screen, the half-attention, the deal

we made with silence without knowing its name.

She said her mother lit a candle, the same

way every night, and called everyone in.

I sat very still. I kept my face thin

and pleasant. I said, that sounds really nice.

The tray table. The reruns. The precise

groove in the laminate. I didn't know

there was a different version. I let it go—

her story, I mean—and nodded and moved on.

The candle. The placemats. All the years gone

eating in a room that never had a table.

Just the groove. The glow. The thing I thought was stable.