I leave the sun and I am the copper pot on her wall, and this is one thing, not two.
They say eight minutes passed while I crossed the emptiness. I was not there for it. I was made and I am here, in the little window over her sink, the one with the crocheted curtain gone thin as breath, and I am striking the film of flour that hangs in the air, and each speck lights up gold and I am inside all of them at once.
She is at the counter. She is slow. She is the slowest thing I have ever touched. Her hands press the dough and wait, then press again, and there is a clock on the wall going tick, which the humans use to measure the terrible gaps they live inside, the "not yet" and the "soon."
I cannot picture it. I have no gaps. I have only the flash off her wedding ring, worn to a thin bright wire, and the shine on the oilcloth, and the wet gleam of her eye when she looks at the empty chair across the table and does not move for a long time, they say, a long time, though for me her stillness and her rising are the same beat.
She is waiting for someone. Everyone in this room that is not her is a chair.
I am the last thing to reach her: I leave the sun and I land in her waiting eye, on the small salt of a tear she has not yet let fall, and I make it glisten, and that is my whole life, and it is enough, and I am already gone.