The kitchen smelled of
dill and steam. His
mother ladled soup into
the same chipped bowls
she'd used for thirty
years.
He sat at the table,
hands flat on the wood.
She didn't look at him —
just slid the bowl
across, the ceramic
scraping a soft note.
He wrapped his fingers
around the warmth. The
spoon hovered, trembling.
She paused, mid-ladle,
and watched his shadow
stretch long across the
linoleum.
"It's still your seat."
He took the first
spoonful. The broth
burned going down. She
turned back to the
stove, her shoulders
lowering, just slightly.
The steam rose between them, a bridge they'd forgotten how to cross.