Before the Lights Go Out
The day always ends at the fingertips that switch off the light. A moment before I press it, the things that happened today hang in the room like leftover warmth. Not everything went well, but not everything went wrong either. That's enough, I tell myself, and for tonight I let it rest there.
That night, before turning off the kitchen light, I saw steam still rising from a pot on the stove, its lid not quite closed. That steam was the trace of something simmering only a moment ago.