The Plate
The first thing I baked him was a cheesecake, because he said he liked soft things and would not say more than that.
He never came in. He left the plate empty on the windowsill by morning. That was the whole conversation for weeks: a full plate out, an empty plate back, no note. I told myself the empty plate was a note.
So I got better. Lemon, then almond, then a honey thing that took three tries. I learned which window he passed and when, and to have it out before he thought to want it. That is not patience. Patience waits. This was closer to gardening.
My mother taught me that care and control are the same gesture. I believed her the way you believe the house you grew up in.
There is one plate I never set out. It stays at the back of the shelf, with the good sugar. I keep it because I am still deciding. That is the honest version. I am someone who finishes things.
The plate on the sill comes back empty most mornings. I have stopped asking who empties it. If it is him, I am kept. If it is the dog down the street, then I am only a good baker. Either way the window stays lit, and I will be here when he is hungry.




