My Mother's Kitchen at Night

After the last plate
the kitchen belongs to her again.

She stacks the steel tiffins
by size, the way she once
lined us up for photographs —
tallest at the back,
the small dented one in front,
still carrying the shape of a fall
from a school bus in 1998.

The tap drips its single consonant.
Tamarind soaks in its bowl for tomorrow,
darkening the water like a slow idea.

She wipes the counter in circles
she could draw blind,
presses the gas knob twice to be sure,
turns off the tube light —
and for a moment the room stays lit
by the small red eye of the geyser,
the green dot on the fridge’s stabilizer,
the steel catching whatever is left.

I used to think the day ended
when we slept.
It ended here,
with her hand on the switch,
standing a little longer than she needs to
in the dark she has earned,
listening to the house
breathe in its sleep
like something she has fed.