The Floor Remembers Water

The tile is cold under the soles of my shoes. I stand in the kitchen where I cooked rice ten years ago; the green enamel cup still sits by the sink. The floor holds the sheen of a river surface, flat and wet, though the sink drain runs dry. A single child's drawing of a two-story house rests across the pine butcher block, its crayon lines bleeding into the grain. I hold the drawing, and my name feels like a knot of warm, useless air in my chest, zero weight. I lift my arm. The sensation of falling upward is constant, a slight counter-pull that keeps my knees bent. I watch the salt crystal in the drying pepper grinder fall, hitting the water-memory of the floor and dissolving without sound. The house in the drawing has an extra chimney. I step toward the backdoor; the light there is a thick, yellow-white, and everything is quieter than before.