Where the Mugs Went

The mugs used to be on the high shelf —

the second one, the one you had to reach for —

mixed in with the travel cups

and the one from that inn in Vermont

you went to alone one winter.

They're in the low cabinet now.

I opened two wrong doors looking for them.

Above the stove there's a spice rack,

wooden, labeled in neat block capitals.

Not your handwriting.

Someone else's system.

You said it makes more sense, more counter space,

and you're right.

The dish rack is a different color.

The sponge has a holder now.

I said I love what you've done in here,

which isn't exactly a lie —

just a sentence with nothing much behind it.

You seemed happy.

Genuinely happy.

I held the Vermont mug with both hands

and looked at the spice rack

and didn't say anything else.