The pot of cháo on the stoveboils in wavessteam rises upfogging the whole pane of glassthe woman stands stirring with an even hand
She is not in a hurryonly stirs very slowlythe wooden spoon touches the bottommaking a soft soundthe smell of fragrant rice spreads through the kitchen
Outside, the sky darkenslittle by littlethe house light comes onwarm yellow lightshe reaches out and turns the small gas flame down
The cháo has softenedshe ladles it into a bowlsets it on the wooden tableone bowl for herselfthe bowl beside it left empty
She sits and eatseach spoonful of hot cháoeyes looking out to the yardwhere the empty chairsomeone once sat in now holds only wind
When she washes her handswater runs steadilyshe dries themthen turns off the kitchen lightthe pot of cháo is empty the steam dissolves