He sits at the kitchen table. Milk splashes into a bowl across the table. The dull glow from the laptop opposes beams of sunlight cutting through the window behind. She says something about starting their eldest son in tae-kwon-do next month. He eyes the clock on the stove.
The house is empty. The doors remain closed. The drawers stay organized, forgetting their contents, the purpose drained from each utensil and appliance. The air has thickened, saturated by denouement, sagging under the completeness of it’s objective.
Yet I remain. What possible errand awaits, lies just outside my comprehension.