Teakettle was sitting on the stove, holding nothing but its emptiness. The red and room temperature emptiness, the kitchen, my mom's fragile body swifting, feet and flour swifting, the hollow teakettle sitting on the stove, carrying nothing but what it should, not even a teaspoon of the mysterious air of the house when dad is no longer here and mom became glass, ready to be broken or break itself and move onto a same density, blood. Red and empty.
I thought you knew that I was staring at the teakettle.
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