When the hospice nurse finally left, I poured the cereal.
That’s what she would’ve wanted.
Two bowls. One spoon. A splash of almond milk, even though she never really liked it.
I sat across from her chair, the one with the cushion worn thin on the left side, and tried to chew like everything was fine.
Her absence wasn’t loud.
It was the click of the spoon against ceramic. The way the light hit the empty chair.
The cereal went soggy before I stopped pretending I could taste it.
Grief didn’t hit like thunder.
It hit like breakfast.
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One Comment
Richard Crossley
With all due respect, WTF? Two bowls and 1 spoon? I can understand 2 spoons sharing a single bowl, but the other way around? I call AI bullshit!