Coffee Pot

The coffee pot died on Tuesday and my dad says it came without warning. I saw the signs of its slow decline though. My mom too. She doesn’t announce it the way I do but I saw her eyes on the excess steam. The way it had been seeping from the machine’s plastic fitted seams. The way the moisture-filled air precipitated, slowly melting the cabinets they’d only just resurfaced last spring. Wet wood and suddenly the dead bits of repurposed tree keeping our kitchen together fell weak again. Or perhaps it was only ever part of their progressive return to that from which they came. I take a rag to the dark brown woods, to the moisture clinging to the edges of our microwave. For a few moments I can use my wrist to erase the damage, interrupt the slow decay. Monday morning’s brew tasted just fine from what I can remember though I can hardly recall which flavors filled my mouth, which bittersweet sensations of false rejuvenation spread across my tongue. When I close my eyes, I try. When I stand barefoot in the kitchen clutching my half wet rag, I hold still and give myself the chance.