The difference between us
I watch her long, brown hair waving with her laughter as she busies herself at the stove.
I watch her as she cracks open her heart. She grabs a well-used whisk and turns the ache into something so functional and beautiful.
I watch her hands the entire time she is creating. She carries on intellectual conversations, she sings lullabies to babies in her honey-sweet voice, and she shakes out the bitterness from the days piling up on the kitchen floor.
I watch her face as she tells me the secret recipe. Her skin is so elegant and warm, you can barely tell she was ever broken. “Tiff, it’s just humor plus patience, and a sprinkle of grit.”
I nod and stare into my tea. I know that if I said thank you, everything would come spilling out.
My hands would reach up to cusp the yoke of my heart, all runny and dripping through my fingers. I would try to hold onto as much as I could but I know my sorrow would make a mess on her clean floors.
Instead, I watch her and note the difference between us.
As I am fighting to keep my mouth closed, she is asking the world,
“Are you hungry?”