The spoon, which controls fate, broke me. Pulling futures from grass and mud; air and rain — everything that mattered from seasons.

I said, But you whispered I love you.

Looking at her coffee she traces her finger around the cup; the rings of Saturn; the generations of hearts she’s broken.

My mom was killed because I didn’t wake her up. As I stood in the entryway of her bedroom, Charlie was sitting on the bed putting on some socks. He mouthed the words, -Let her sleep, I’ll take you. The smoke lifted the words that he didn’t say, and carried them across the room to me. I didn’t respond, just went back to getting ready for school.

It was a mistake, she said. People say things.

Her fingertips held the spoon that controlled everything. Galaxies, continents, cream, black, me. Stirring her coffee, at the corner table, she cracked my ribs and sucked calcium from my bones.

I said, but you whispered I love you. Like I mattered.