For a moment, I stood in the hallway.
The house smelled of onions and warm bread.
There were two plates on the table.
My book lay beside one of them.
No flowers.
No special occasion.
No performance waiting to be admired.
Daniel looked toward me.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
Then I said, “I used to think being loved would feel more dramatic than this.”
He lowered the heat.
“What does this feel like?”
I looked around.
“Like I can put my bag down.”
He smiled.
“Then put it down.”
I did.
Went to wash my hands.
And came back for dinner.
WHAT THE CLOCK KEPT
That night, I woke briefly.
Daniel was asleep.
The house was quiet.
Downstairs, my grandfather’s old clock kept time.
I listened until I could separate its faint ticking from the wind.
There had been years when darkness meant waiting.
Listening for a door.
For an explanation.
For someone to return and make me believe I hadn’t been abandoned.
Now the darkness asked nothing of me.
I pulled the blanket higher.
Closed my eyes.
And let the morning wait.
