What Remains in the Bowl

The spinach wilted in the colander, exactly as Thomas had taught her to make it—olive oil, garlic, just until it collapsed into itself. Sarah stood at the stove with her hand on the wine glass he'd given her three years ago, the day he moved in. The day he brought the dog.

Barnaby was asleep in the corner, his silver muzzle twitching. Some days Sarah looked at him and saw the animal Thomas had rescued from the shelter—all boundless energy and slobbering devotion. Other days she saw what remained: the creature who had absorbed three years of Thomas's decline, who had learned to walk quietly, to sit by the bedside during the long hours when pain wouldn't let either of them sleep.

The calendar on the refrigerator still showed February. Six months since the funeral. Since she'd worn that ridiculous hat—the wide-brimmed thing with the silk flowers she'd bought as a joke, because Thomas had always said she looked like a film star in hats, and she'd wanted to make him smile one last time, even though by then he rarely opened his eyes.

The kitchen was too quiet. That was the thing about grief—it wasn't constant. It came in waves, like the smell of garlic hitting the hot oil, suddenly overwhelming. She'd think she was fine, she'd think she'd moved on, and then something small would catch her: the way spinach steamed when she covered the pan, the particular rhythm of Barnaby's breathing, the hat still hanging on the hook by the door.

Sarah turned off the burner. The spinach was perfect, dark and glistening. She'd eat alone, again. Barnaby would get his portion, as always. Tomorrow she might call her mother. Tomorrow she might take down the hat.

Or maybe not. Maybe some things stayed on the hook.