Ordinary Devotions

there is always a little extra.
she still cooks that way.
two plates out of habit.
one set slightly to the left.
she does not notice when she does it.
or maybe she does
and pretends not to.

the food is the same as it used to be.
rice, something warm, something that takes time.
something that fills the house with a smell that used to mean something else.
she serves both plates evenly.
she is careful about that.
some things should not change.

she eats slowly.
not because she wants to,
but because she is waiting.
for what, she does not say.
the second plate stays warm for a while.
steam rising, then less, then none.
she does not touch it.
it feels wrong to start there.

by the time she finishes her own,
the other has gone cold.
she sits with it a little longer.
as if time might reverse itself
if she is patient enough.
it doesn't.
it never does.

sometimes she moves the food around
so it looks like less is missing.
so it looks like it has been eaten.
she tells herself this is not pretending.
just… arranging.

there is always a moment
where she almost says something out loud.
but there is no one to answer,
so she doesn't.

the second plate is cleared last.
carefully.
quietly.
she does not throw the food away immediately.
it stays in the kitchen longer than it should.
covered, untouched.
leftovers of leftovers.

the fridge is full of things that will not be eaten.
she knows this.
she keeps them anyway.
it feels wrong to let go of something
that was meant to be shared.
even if it never will be again.

sometimes, she eats from that plate.
small bites, spaced out.
not because she is hungry.
just to make sure it doesn't go to waste.
just to make sure
something of it stays.

the taste is familiar.
that is the problem.
it lingers longer than it should.

there is always a little extra.
she still cooks that way.

The ocean has terrible sleeping habits.

All night it turns over itself
dragging blue blankets across the shore
unable to settle into one dream for very long.

By morning it apologizes with seashells
small pink mouths pressed into the sand.

No one forgives it.

The sea has always reminded me of mothers
who survive too much to become tender again.

Women who love in practical ways.
Who cut fruit instead of speaking.
Who mistake worry for devotion.
Who grip your wrist too tightly while helping you cross the road.

The ocean loves like that.

In overwhelming ways.

It does not know how to touch softly.
Even its gentlest waves leave salt in wounds.

Still, every summer we return to it.
As if hurt can become holy
simply by repeating itself enough times.

Every god grows lonely eventually.

Especially the ones people reduce to postcards.
The ones tourists visit only briefly
before carrying fragments of them home in wet hair
or photographs brightened afterward.

The ocean is old enough to know this.

That humans only worship beautiful things
once they have made them smaller.

Sometimes the sea behaves less like a goddess
and more like a lover who never learned gentleness.
It keeps reaching for the shore
despite being rejected thousands of times a day.

Wave after wave.
A hand returning to a locked door.

I think that is what grief really is.
Not absence
but repetition.

The ocean keeps everything people abandon to it.
Bones.
Oil spills.
Ships split open like fruit.
Names swallowed during storms.
Prayers muttered into life jackets.

The sea carries them all without complaint
though lately its breathing has changed.

Too fast.
Too uneven.
Like someone trying not to panic in public.

And still we call it beautiful.

Perhaps because grief is easier to witness
when it glitters beneath sunlight.

Or perhaps because humans have always confused devastation for love.

We build homes beside rising water.
Write poems about drowning.
Press our ears into seashells
just to hear loneliness echo back prettier.

The ocean has terrible sleeping habits.

It cannot stop returning to the shore.
Not hunger.
Not anger.

Just the oldest instinct of all:
to be held back.

I come from a long line
of almosts.
My mother folds doubt
like laundry —
tucks it into drawers
lined with lavender
and things left unsaid.
She taught me silence
can be stitched into affection,
and how to smile
without showing your teeth.

My father wrote his promises
in pencil
then lost the notebook.
He said he loved us
on even-numbered days
and vanished
on the odds.
I keep his nose,
his vanishing act,
his habit of looking away
mid-sentence.

So don't ask me
why I flinch
when the phone rings.
I hear care
and I mistake it
for warning.
I let calls collect
like rain in buckets —
intentions turned stagnant
from being left too long.

You told me once
that love is a verb —
but I only ever learned it
as a goodbye.
So forgive me
if I orbit around you
like a moon made of glass,
trying not to shatter
from your warmth.

Sometimes,
I draft texts
like prayers,
delete them like confessions.
I imagine your voice
in the pauses
between songs
and wonder if
you ever stopped waiting.

I swear
it's not that I don't care.
It's just that caring
feels like a glass of water
I was never taught to hold.
It spills,
every time —
on the floor,
in my throat,
down your name.

And love?
Love feels like drowning
in a memory I never lived,
a house I never entered
but somehow
left anyway.

Maybe
if I were softer,
less static,
more moonlight
and less broken mirror —
maybe then
I could have loved you.

But this is the part
where I let you go
without ever holding on.
Where I promise you
that in some other life
I answered every call
before it rang.

Where water remembers
my name —
and doesn't choke on it.