The broth thickens as it cools.
Stray images rise to the surface with every turn of the spoon, forgotten ingredients, bubbles of dream. The debris of what might have been slipping easily beneath the surface.
Now and then he brings the ladle to his lips to see if the broth is ready, but there is always something missing, always something unnamed.
The pot is deep, the fire old. What meat there was dissolved long ago in the stirring. A rubbish of bones settles at the bottom, unsifted by disturbances that seem so very far away.