But what was there to say? Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Emptiness fitted together like stacked spoons. Only that there was a snuffling in the hollows at the base of a lovely throat. Only that a hard honey-colored shoulder had a semicircle of teethmarks on it. Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared that night was not happiness, but hideous grief. Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.
I thought about how mothers feed their babies with tiny little spoons and forks so I wondered, what do Chinese mothers use? Toothpicks?
For I have known them all already, known them all— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
As difficult as it is to have company within one's house, the absence of company is more so. The quiet echoing of solitary footsteps within the halls is suddenly amplified without the voices of excited guests. The clinking of plates and silver has narrowed to individual forks and spoons instead of the enchanting din of dining. The natural creaks and squeaks of the home are louder and more surprising.