Evening

I came in late, not knowing what I’d say,
still carrying the day in how I stood.
The light was going. The room held its shape.
You looked up once, then went on as you were.

No questions.
You set another place.
Bread on the board, a glass brought out,
the small things done without remark.

I ate.
The food was plain and warm.
We spoke a little, not about the past,
just what was near enough to hold.

After, you showed me where to sleep.
Clean sheets.
A window left a little open.
Air moving in and out.

I lay there, listening to the house,
the boards, a pipe, a car go by.
Nothing was asked of me.
Nothing I had to answer.

In the morning you were already up.
Kettle on.
Light coming in across the table.
You handed me a cup.

We went outside.
The path rose behind the place,
stones set in the ground,
uneven, but it held.

I wasn’t steady.
You slowed without saying so.
We stopped where I needed to,
then went on.

At the top we stood a while.
The land opened out.
I felt it in my legs,
the work of getting there.

Coming down was easier.
Still careful,
but different.

I stayed.

Days settled into one another.
Chairs where they had been.
Meals at the same time.
The ordinary held.

When I faltered
you didn’t make much of it.
Just waited
until I found my footing again.

I noticed, after a while,
I was speaking more.
Not about everything.
Enough.

Evenings came as they do.
Light leaving the walls.
We sat without filling it.

I didn’t think about leaving.