The way light hits the kitchen at 8pm

It’s that hour when the sun is low enough to slide through the back window and pool on the linoleum like spilled honey. I stood there this evening, one hand on the fridge, thinking about how my old oak—gone now to oak wilt—used to cast a shadow just like that in summer. Not the same, of course. Trees don’t leave shadows; they leave absences. And yet, here it is again: the exact shape of something lost, warm and horizontal across the floor. I didn’t even know I was waiting for it.