The Weight of Missing Things

The green enamel cup sits on the dresser, the one with the chipped handle. Outside, the field stretches, flat grass catching the low sun, ending at the base of a single telephone pole. I keep checking the wrists, the watch ticking a steady, frantic beat, the glass face clear, the hands missing entirely. The weight of the watch feels substantial on my arm. Up ahead, the staircase descends and ascends at once, a spiral movement pulling against the air. I know the latch clicked shut somewhere, a specific volume of absence in the house, and I cannot put my finger on the room. The pole casts a shadow that bends ninety degrees at midday. I walk toward the sound of the rising steps, the smell of dust and distant lilac following me.