you wake up at 6:40 on a Saturday and your left foot is hanging off the edge of the mattress. your right arm is stretched all the way to the other side, taking up the space where a pillow used to be dented. you are sleeping diagonally. like a starfish. like a kid. like someone who hasn't had to curl herself into a small, careful shape in years.
you lie there for a second. you don't pull your foot back in. you don't roll over to make room. you just stretch your toes in the cold air and take up the whole bed.
the kitchen is quiet when you walk in. not the held-breath kind of quiet. not the quiet where you're listening for a heavy sigh from the other room. just the regular quiet of a house with nobody in it yet. you make coffee. you scoop two tablespoons because that's how you like it, not the weak, watery amount someone else preferred. you pour it into the chipped mug you've been hiding in the back of the cabinet because it didn't match the set. you drink it standing at the counter, in your underwear, with your hair in a mess, and nobody is going to walk in and make a face.
the thermostat says 71. it has said 71 for three weeks now. you still catch yourself waiting for the complaint. for the why is it so warm in here. it doesn't come. you adjust it to 72 just because you can. just to feel the small, ridiculous power of it.
the grief still shows up, though. you don't skip that part. it hits you in the cereal aisle on a Tuesday, standing in front of the granola, because you remember buying the same box four years ago and someone making a joke about it in the parking lot. your eyes burn for about thirty seconds. you don't drop the box. you just hold it and breathe through your nose until the wave passes. you put it in the cart. you keep walking. the grief doesn't mean you're going backward. it just means you were there. it just means it was real.
then, on a Thursday night, you're washing a single plate and a single fork, and the sponge slips out of your hand and lands in the sink with a wet, ridiculous thwap. you stare at it. and for no reason at all, you laugh. not the polite laugh you use at work. not the careful laugh you used to use to defuse a mood in the other room. the real one. the one that comes up from your stomach and surprises you. the one that makes the dog lift his head.
you laugh until your ribs ache a little. you don't know why. maybe because the sponge is stupid. maybe because the plate is yours and the fork is yours and the quiet is yours and nobody is coming down the hall to ask what's so funny. maybe because you spent years forgetting what your own laugh sounded like when it wasn't performing.
you rinse the sponge. you set it on the edge of the sink. you catch your reflection in the dark glass of the microwave door. your hair is still a mess. there's a smudge of something on your wrist. your eyes look older than they did three years ago. but they're soft. they aren't scanning. they aren't bracing. they're just looking back at you, a little wet, a little tired, a little amused.
the corner of your mouth pulls up. not for a camera. not for a caption. just for you. a private, stubborn thing. a small joke between you and the glass.
you turn off the overhead light. you leave the plate in the drying rack. you walk down the hall, and the floorboard creaks, and you don't fix your step. you get into bed. you stretch your legs out. you take up the whole mattress.
you close your eyes, and you let the house be exactly as quiet as it is.
kid