Stirring

I made the broth and ate standing,

alone at the kitchen counter.

The fat rose to the surface in a slick.

I stirred it back under.

It separated again. I stirred.

Again. Again. Pointless,

but the spoon kept moving,

kept pushing it back down.

The steam rose and faded.

The fat kept rising.

I kept stirring,

there was nothing surprising

in this. Just a small gesture.

A useless ritual. The spoon

scraping the bottom of the bowl

while I stood alone.

The fat would rise again anyway.

But I kept doing it.

Kept bringing it back down.

Kept doing the thing

that didn't matter.