When the World Forgot How to Live

The morning was still. Light moved across the kitchen floor in thin gold lines. She stood by the window, holding a cup that had lost its warmth, watching a neighbor hurry past with earbuds in and eyes down. The world moved quickly now, faster than the body could follow. She felt the pull of it, the steady hum that called itself progress but offered little rest.

What the Hours Are For

The water holds her like a warm hush. Old songs play softly from the phone on the stool. The ceiling fan turns without hurry. Late morning light drifts across the wall in pale bands that ripple when the steam moves. Faint street sounds rise and fade, a delivery truck in the distance, a car door closing, the easy rhythm of a day that does not need her for anything urgent.