Garlicky smoke plumes from our oven the afternoon
I come home to grab a meringue pie
and leave again, this time to a Christmas party.
I dart upstairs to warn you your baking potatoes, hastily wrapped in foil
and leaking oil, might burn the house down. But you’re deep in a Zoom call—
so many coworkers your monitor resembles graph paper—
and your locked jaw, stiff back,
signal interruptions aren’t welcome. I miss the one-thoughtness
of childhood: I wanted to drink warm rain
so I did, eyes shut. Petted an alley cat. Made the new kid in suspenders
my BFF. Grown, I tell myself your potatoes won’t start a grease fire,
not to ruin your late lunch with worry.
Driving off, I check my rear-view mirror for flames crowning our house;
could there be a worse thought? The small relief you’d be to blame, not me.
Or, in bed that night, shame I didn’t rewrap your potatoes.
Slip you a note.
