The Sink Still Drips (Grief Echoing Through Familiar Spaces)

I still hear the clatter of forks,
not from today,
but from a Tuesday three Octobers ago
when the soup boiled over and your laughter rose
above the steam.
You wore that apron with the yellow sunflowers,
smeared with tomato and time.
You said, “Mess means love.”
And I believed you.

I still wipe that same countertop,
the one you swore was crooked.
“You gotta press down right there,” you’d say,
“else the crumbs hide in the corner.”
Now I press down too hard,
as if pressure could make it all right again,
as if scrubbing could bring back
the weight of your hands.

This kitchen still breathes you.

Still smells of cinnamon and burnt toast,
still echoes your hum from the pantry to the fridge,
still holds that chip in the bowl you called lucky—
the one I begged you to toss
but you’d never let go.
Said it was “a survivor,”
like you.
But now I hold it like a relic,
that little break near the rim
feels like the crack in my chest.

I stand in front of the stove and stir.
I stir and stir and stir,
even when there’s nothing in the pot.
Even when the house is too quiet,
even when the light outside
turns from gold to gray to gone.
Because if I keep stirrin’,
if I keep doin’ it the way you taught me,
maybe the smell of garlic will fool me
into thinkin’ you're still here.

I line up the salt and pepper like you did.
Salt on the right.
Pepper on the left.
Salt on the right.
Pepper on the left.
I whisper it like a prayer,
like a spell,
as if the order of things
could still summon you back.

I keep talkin’ to your chair.
I keep leavin’ the window cracked open
so your spirit can drift in
with the morning.
I keep foldin’ that red dish towel,
the one you used to flick at my thigh
when I reached for cookies too soon.

I keep.
I keep.
I keep.

The floor creaks where your slipper used to rest.
The fridge hums that same low lullaby
you danced to
with your back to the sink
and a spoon in your hand like a microphone.
God, you made everything feel
like a reason to sing.

I still find your handwriting on the recipe card—
“Don’t forget the nutmeg,”
and your ‘g’ curls like a shy smile.
I read it out loud every time,
pretending you’re across from me
measuring flour by feel,
not cups.

People say it’s time to move on.
They bring store-bought casseroles and sympathy,
sit on the edge of the couch like grief’s contagious.
They say “time heals,”
but time just rearranges the ache
into something you can carry while standing.

But me—
I stay.

I stay with the chipped tile
and the kettle that whistles off key.
I stay where your ghost lives
between the cupboards and the spice rack.
I stay in this room where your love
grew roots between onions and oranges,
where your laugh lived in the ceiling fan,
where the clock ticks too loud
because it doesn’t know
how to keep time without you.

I still wear your apron sometimes.
Still mess up the gravy
and pretend I meant to.
Still talk to the stove
like you used to do
when it wouldn’t light.

Still.
Still.
Still.

Because this kitchen remembers.
Because these walls
have soaked up our Sundays,
our burnt pancakes,
our quiet apologies over lukewarm tea.

Because even the silence here
feels shaped like you—
soft around the edges,
warm in the corners.

Because maybe if I keep cookin’,
keep talkin’,
keep listenin’ to the faucet’s drip
like a metronome for memories,
you’ll walk in barefoot again,
dustin’ flour off your fingertips,
hummin’ some half-remembered hymn
about mercy.

And I’ll turn,
and I’ll say
what I never said enough:

Stay.
Please stay.

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