His Spoon in the Silence

It was just soup, but it carried the scent

of a vanished afternoon, parsley wilted

on the wooden counter, his laughter echoing

in the chipped mug.

My husband used to stir it

with fierce concentration, tongue between teeth,

as if memory could be summoned

with a spoon.

Carrots softening like silence, onions whispering

what we never said.

The mug still burns with touch,

though no hand lifts it now.

Just steam, spiralling upward, ghosts of habit

dancing above the broth.

A well-loved guitar sits in the corner.

I never threw it out.

Some redundancies are holy.

Like how I still make too much,

as if he might come through the door,

cold and loud, asking for seconds.

A camera once caught us here

its shutter, a cruel mimic

of memory’s click.

But the photo is flat, colours too bright,

nothing smells warm in it.

You can’t hear soup when it simmers on glossy paper.

They say what we persist in doing

becomes easier.

Not the grief itself, but the lifting of it,

like ladling from the bottom

where the best parts hide.

Now I eat quietly.

The table doesn’t mind.

The mug never cools.