The way the light hits the old oak now

It’s late afternoon, and the sun’s slanting through the kitchen window like it’s trying to remember something. The grain in the table—same one I sanded down twenty years ago—looks different today, deeper. Not because of the light, really, but because I’m slower now. I catch myself staring at things that didn’t matter before. Like how the coffee’s gone cold and I don’t care. Or how the pipe under the sink hasn’t dripped in weeks, and I’ve stopped checking. Maybe it’s not broken. Maybe it’s just resting.