She Gets Up at Four, and Never Says Why

He got home just before noon, suitcase still zipped shut. There were already seven dishes on the table, filling it end to end. Nobody mentioned what time his mother had gotten up.

Once a year he makes it home, and the meal was over in twenty minutes. Everyone stood up and went to nap. Only later did he learn she had been cooking since four in the morning — eight hours, spent on twenty minutes. And those seven dishes were never about anyone being full. More dishes means the meal takes longer to break up, and the longer it takes, the longer everyone stays at the table.

That afternoon the house went quiet and she stayed at the sink. He stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her wash one bowl at a time, slowly — much slower than she ever does. Not because she was tired. Because when the dishes run out, the work runs out, and then there's no reason left for anyone to stand in the kitchen with her.

On the last morning she only asked what time his bus was. His bags were loaded, the yard was empty, and where three pairs of sandals had sat two days ago there was now just a clean patch on the tile. Then he saw the kitchen light on again at four — the second time in three days. She was cooking the portion he would carry, so the meal could follow him a few more days.

She doesn't say goodbye out loud. She says it at four in the morning.

He looked back once, and she was still standing at the gate. Next time he comes home, he doesn't know what hour she'll wake.