It's Still Life

Liturgy #12 for the Name She Has Never Heard
(or for the toast burnt twice, and the ring that tells a stranger’s story)

I. The Lock She Does Not Open
The conservator’s voice stays with her.
Do not open it, not yet, not like this,
and so she does the hardest thing
a curious woman can do.

She protects her fingers from her surging desire
by placing the spiral lock into an envelope,
sealing it, and writing in bold letters:

DO NOT OPEN.

And there it sits.
A locked thing in a locked place,
an answer she has chosen not to have,
a door she has deliberately closed.

II. The Cat That Watches
The neighbour’s cat sits on a chair,
watching her scatter across the kitchen
like a woman whose thoughts
have all left the room.

She measures tea into the wrong cup.
She forgets the kettle.
She puts the bread in the toaster
and walks away.

The cat blinks slowly,
the way cats do
when they are witnessing something
that does not require their intervention.

It has seen this before.
It has watched many humans
try to make breakfast
while their minds were elsewhere.

III. The Toast That Burns Twice
The first slice:
black.

She scrapes it over the sink,
rescues what she can,
and tries again.

The second slice:
black.

And this time she does not scrape.
She stands at the counter
with the ruined toast in her hand
and feels the absurdity of it all,

that her grandfather is a file,
her grandmother is a photograph,
and the ring on the table
belongs to someone, or no one.

The cat watches.
The toast smokes.
The morning continues
whether she is present for it or not.

IV. The Ring That Remembers a Stranger
She takes the freezer bag
and empties it onto the table.
Loose coins scattering like small confessions,
an expired credit card,
and there,
a large wedding band,
heavy with the weight
of a promise that was not hers.

She picks it up.
She holds it to the light.
And inside the band,
engraved in the careful hand
of someone who once loved deeply,
is a name.

Not her grandmother’s name.

Mairi.

V. For the One Who Finds a Stranger’s Name
Protect the lock you did not open,
may it keep its secret
until the time is right.

See the cat that watched
without judgment
or help.

Forget the toast, burnt twice;
may it teach you
that some mornings are not for eating.

Hold the coins, the credit card,
the ring that held another woman’s name,
may they be breadcrumbs, not dead ends.

And to Fenella, know that
every name is a door.
And you have just found
another one.