The Sound of Water in the Morning
From the kitchen came the sound of water boiling. In the room where warmth still lingered, sunlight through the gap in the window lay stretched long across the floor. She must have gotten up first and put the water on. While I took out two cups and set them on the table, the water drops she'd sprayed on the glass last evening were still there, catching the morning light and glittering. A damp smell rose from the soil in the flowerpot. I walked to the window and touched the soil with a fingertip. Still moist. A hazy memory surfaced of having definitely watered it yesterday. Steam rose from the kettle, and the sound of boiling grew louder. She was probably on the living room sofa with the blanket pulled over her. Morning was flowing quietly by, as it always did.
I remember the sound of the rice pot bubbling on the stove in the kitchen. And the stray cat sitting in the still-dark alley beyond the window.
With the stray cat sitting in the alley at that hour, the sound of the rice pot must have been all the clearer. I was rinsing a water glass as I listened to that sound.