The Kitchen Counterlist

The Formica countertop is cool under my fingertips. I trace the salt stain, knowing I cooked here ten years ago, the stove’s cast iron grate a deep, dull green. A paper map, folded into the shape of a starling, sits beside the chipped ceramic sugar bowl. The air smells of wet cardboard and distant cinnamon. I have no idea what I need to reach for. A board listing names hangs on the back of the pantry door; the name *Eliza* appears where the time should be, etched into the pine. I lift my head, testing the mouth muscles. I speak the name aloud. It fails to hold itself together, dissolving into the white dust on the counter.