Dear wife, I have nothing of my own to keep in the cupboard that once held your lotus tea, French onion soup, and gluten-free snacks. All of that, I swept into a paper bag and gave away a few days after you left me standing alone in this big house. I noticed, only after removing all of that, the smallish pill cornered in the back: white and oblong, with “L607” stamped on the face.
The pill might be anything. Maybe a fix for heartburn. Perhaps, if I swallow the pill, I will stop coming awake late in the night, thinking a might hear you walking in another room, the hollow report of your cane finding a sure hold on the floor. Maybe, if you had found and taken the pill, you would yet be with me today.
After examining the pill, rolling it though my fingers, I pressed the pill against my tongue for second. The pill tasted like what I imagine you would taste if you licked the surface of a willow leaf. A little bitter. Dust. Sated with these experiments, I gingerly placed the pill at the very center of the empty cupboard, closed the door.
I have taken to opening the cupboard and peering inside every few days. I study the pill. Sometimes, I take the pill into my palm. On other occasions, I merely stare at the pill, almost fearful to touch. Today, I gazed long into the cupboard. The pill sitting there, steady as a god. I have nothing better to keep in there.
--Mitchell Hegman
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