In Case It Matters

The words come back the way old prayers do— not true, but practiced.

Photo by Ehud Neuhaus on Unsplash

In Case It Matters

 
The kettle clicks off. 
The silence, already here, thickens. 
Sun slats the floor— 
dust suspended like a held breath, 
as if the room were bracing 
for something older than my voice. 
 
I run my hand over the edge of the table— 
worn smooth where years have leaned. 
She sets down the bread. Crust like bark, 
dense as a name I was never meant to say— 
but it's warm. Still warm. 
 
I take a piece. I eat. I say thank you, 
not because I mean it, 
but because the words come back 
the way old prayers do— not true, but practiced. 
 
The plates don't match. One's chipped, 
one's from a set they stopped making 
when the world still felt held together. 
Still, I set the table. Knife, fork, spoon. 
I fold the napkin. Not for show— 
but because setting the table 
still feels like trying.
 
I pause.
Look out the window. 
No footsteps. No sound from the road. 
Light pools on the counter, 
as if it had nowhere else to go. 
 
Outside, a branch leans against the pane, 
wind scraping it like a scar 
no one can heal. Or name. 
 
I light the candle anyway. 
The wick sputters. 
Then steadies. 
A small flame, 
flickering, 
struggling to stay lit. 
 
The bowl still steams, 
like it doesn’t know. 
I sip slowly. Not to savor, 
but because it's the only thing I can do 
not to notice what’s gone quiet. 
 
Without saying anything, 
I fill the sink. I wash the dishes by hand. 
One by one. The water runs warm,
then cool. I dry each plate, 
set it back in its place. 
 
The dog doesn't beg anymore. 
She just waits—head on my knee now, 
eyes like a question 
that's already heard the answer 
and stayed.
 

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Luciano Conte, born in Formia, Italy, roots himself in tactile arts like film photography, painting, bread baking, and house building. He writes in order to probe those persistent, buried forces that shape us from beneath the surface. For him, silence is not absence but presence: a pause that resonates the loudest, like the pause in a conversation that carries more weight than words. He speaks his lines aloud while writing, tying rhythm to breath, making language a living, physical act where sound and sense fuse, just as photography captures light and shadow. He urges readers to read his work aloud to unlock layers that silent reading misses, letting the cadence shape the experience in the same way as kneading dough or laying foundation stones, where each gesture is deliberate and consequential.

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