Sunday evening finds us in the kitchen.

You’re washing up, I’m rolling flatbreads out

with tension like a mortise in my gut.

We’ve heard the news: a relative of yours,

a garden afternoon, a sudden slip,

and somehow, that was it. My hands still grip

the rolling pin, yours soak in a dishless sink.

We glance towards the fissure, look for ways

to say in silence what we need to say.

And I, clumsy, reach across a stack

of nearby trays, nudging the balance out:

two knives clatter to the floor and gouge

one small divot out of the laminate.

I flinch. You catch my eye. The silence flickers.