It's 1am and I'm still setting five places at the kitchen table, even though it's been just me and Mom for almost a year now.
The fifth chair stays pushed in, the plate upside down, the fork parallel to nothing. I can't stop. I've tried.
Aunt Carla showed up unannounced tonight, bags still in the hallway, and just sat down in her old spot like no time had passed.
She saw the empty place and didn't say anything. She reached past it for the bread.
The thermostat's been taped over with a note in his handwriting since March. DO NOT TOUCH. She didn't touch it.
After she went to bed, I sat there staring at his chair, and realized I keep setting it because stopping means I've accepted something I'm not ready to accept yet.
But Aunt Carla reaching past it, not around it, not avoiding it, just past it, like it was part of the table and not a wound. Maybe that's what it looks like later.
I left his plate set. But I blew out the candle. Small steps.