The Kitchen and the Missing Season

The yellow formica countertop smells of old cinnamon. I sit at the table in the corner, where the sunlight always fell ten years ago. My fingers press the tooth against the wood. Across the small back window, the garden displays heavy, wet snow, though the kitchen clock reads late August. A woman stands by the sink, washing plates. She does not look at me, but her presence makes the air feel still, safe. The sounds of the street are distant, muffled by the window glass, and I am here, sheltered in the volume of her routine.