Grace

I don't know what I believe but I know the feeling when the light hits the kitchen table at an angle so specific it seems intended— as if someone, somewhere, had given thought to this: the way the grain of wood catches fire for a moment and the coffee sends its signal straight to heaven (or to the ceiling, at least, which on some mornings is close enough). I have no prayers that sound like prayers. I have: thank you for the toast. Thank you for the legs that got me to the window. Thank you for the window. If there is a god, I think god is the thing that happens in the pause between the kettle's click and the water being poured— that brief, warm, unnecessary silence where nothing is required and everything is given.