The Kitchen Ten Years Ago

I am standing in the corner where the cast iron stove used to sit. The yellow tile floor has a patch of spilled oregano near the sink, just where I sliced garlic ten years ago. A stranger leans against the chipped formica countertop, their hand resting on a stack of enamel mugs. They look at me with the half-recognition of an old neighbour. My attention catches a spiral notebook on the pine table; inside is a child's crayon drawing of a house with an over-large chimney. The stranger nods once, a single motion of acknowledgement. I turn toward the hall mirror. The reflection does not show the oregano stain or the mugs. It shows the kitchen exactly three seconds before I reached the counter.