The quiet after dinner

The kitchen is quiet now, the way it gets after everyone has wandered off. The plates are stacked, and the only light comes from under the cabinets. It’s a moment that feels separate from the rest of the day.

Letting the evening settle

I didn’t reach for my phone. It was just there on the counter, face down, and I left it. The notifications could wait for another hour, or maybe the whole night.There’s a particular kind of calm in a room that’s been full of people and now isn’t. The air feels different, like it’s settling back into itself. You can hear the hum of the refrigerator again.

Turning the wheel without thinking

I spun it on the countertop, just to see. The names of my family were there, but it wasn’t about assigning a task. It was more like watching the names blur together for a second.It landed on my own name. I didn’t feel any particular way about it. It was just a fact, like the time on the oven clock or the pattern of the dish towel.

The sound of water

I filled the sink and let the hot water run over my wrists for a moment. It’s a small, physical feeling that pulls you into the room.

Looking out the window

The backyard was dark, but I could see the outline of the tree against the neighbor’s light. My reflection in the glass was faint, just a shape moving slowly.I washed a plate, then a glass, setting them in the rack to drip. There was no rush to finish, no list waiting. The soap bubbles caught the light in little rainbows before they popped.