No Grace

The porcelain plate held down the memorial card from his wife’s funeral, its crisp white edge pinning the sunflowers and blue jays to the table. The last of the guests had already gone, the house empty again. Snow fell quietly as thick flakes passed the dining room window. The same window where they once watched their children play in the yard. Where he used to stand with his coffee, watching her garden take shape after the abundance that April always brought.

Now there was only the table.

And his plate.

It sat in front of him, clean and untouched. Purposeful, yet empty. He had never learned to cook. She told him not to bother. They had settled into their life without discussion and had been happy. The plate waited like it always had. He was the one who didn’t know what to do anymore.

The chair across from him was unburdened by the heaviness the house now carried. His chest tightened, and his stomach followed with hunger. He placed his hands around the smooth edges of the porcelain and expected his wife to say grace. Instead, only the chill of the dish greeted him. There was nothing to warm his hands, and no grace to be had. There was no one left to bless the meal or forgive the silence.

He traced a small crack on the plate with his thumb, gently, as if it were a fresh wound that risked being reopened. The ice machine in the refrigerator rattled. The analog clock they had kept for years ticked like an off-kilter metronome, only to remind him that time would catch him soon enough.

He began to welcome the thought and slowly closed his eyes. It was an attempt to summon her back into his reality. A memory of her cooking stirred, a scent he could almost reach. Pies he once loved now filled his mind. He could see the steam rising as the crust set, fresh from the oven.

He opened his eyes, his mouth watering, and looked toward the kitchen, only to smell nothing. The lights were off. The oven untouched. Her apron lay across the counter, ready for her return. Some things still awaited her. He did not correct them. He dared not share that she would not be back. He wiped a tear from his cheek and tried to clear his throat, but his body refused the effort.

His stomach growled, and he rose to enter the kitchen.

The room felt heavy, thick with a warmth that did not exist, while the oven stood cold before him. He stood in the center as the room felt to shrink around him. A few initial attempts at finding things in the kitchen proved to be unfruitful. The baking supplies were where he thought the spices would be. Nonperishables, where he assumed the pots and pans might go.

Inevitably, he found a pan hidden in the oven as if it were afraid of being used by anyone but her. Soon after, he pulled a singular strip steak from the fridge. He left its pair for another day in the dark, cool space.

He closed his eyes and tried to see his love again.

His chest rose and fell until the room stopped tightening around him.

A slight shade of a smile crossed his lips, eyes still closed. Memories followed. The jokes and stories they shared were mixed with the scents of her skill: garlic crushed with the flat of a knife, onions sweating in oil, bay leaves warming in a pot, fresh basil and rosemary, butter browned to perfection.

It was overwhelming.

Both consoling and bitter.

As he attempted to take on the newest challenge of the day, it was as if he could mimic the movements she performed for all those years. Albeit substantially more disorganized. He set the steak on the counter and started to season it. But, quickly ran into the issue of remembering what seasonings she used. So, he added salt and freshly cracked black pepper. He was unsure if it was right and added some all-purpose steak seasoning. The salt clung to his fingers, and he wiped his hands on the towel she kept folded over the sink.

The pan began to heat quicker than he thought, and the oil spread to its edges. He dropped the steak in, and a small bit of oil flicked onto his wrist. He winced and moved to the sink to run the burn under water. But he couldn’t remember what she would have told him to do.

The steak sizzled like an objection.

He added crushed garlic to the pan. Nearly immediately, the smell of it mixed with fat, oil, rosemary, butter, and heat. It reached him before he was mentally prepared. The cooking was not hers, but the smell of it was the same. For a second, the kitchen felt occupied again.

Flipping the steak revealed its sear, which, to him, seemed more like the underside of a burnt pizza than a decent cut of meat. He wished she were here to push him aside and laugh with him at his horrid cooking ability.

No help came.

A bit of smoke rose to the ceiling, and he opened the kitchen window. The winter breeze clashed with the stove’s fire for dominance. Both seemed to not mind his presence. He transferred the steak to his porcelain plate when he believed it had finished. It sat neatly in the center. The same way she would set it down. He grabbed onto the edges of the plate and found momentary satisfaction in finally finding it warm.

Juices bled onto the porcelain and coated the plate in darkness. He sat and let the steak rest for a few minutes. But he grew awkwardly disconcerted with how decent it appeared. His hunger returned. Loud and familiar. He remained next to the plate for nearly double its cook time. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to eat.

He considered saying grace: bowed his head, closed his eyes, and interlaced his fingers.

But he stood instead.

And went to bed.