Off

The color came out right.

I stood over it long enough

to be sure—the same depth, the same

slow ring of dark at the edge

she used to carry out in the pot she kept

specifically for this.

I set the bowl on the counter.

I had the spoon in my hand.

Then I smelled it.

The window above the sink had gone dark

while I was standing there.

I tasted it once, slow, the way you try

to locate a sound.

Nothing was where it was supposed to be.

I turned the burner off.

I didn't cover anything.

I just walked out of the kitchen

and stood in the hall

with the spoon still in my hand,

the bowl behind me looking

exactly like the right thing.