Just the Dark Parts

In silence, I stood in the galley.

A piece of bread in my hand, scraping the bottom of a cold pan.

There wasn’t much left.
Just a thin burnt layer.
The dark parts.

The boat rocked at anchor.
Dishes piled in the sink.
Clanging.

Halyards tapped against the mast.
A hollow metallic sound.
The wind is dying.

I tore off another piece of bread.

My index finger bent backward as I pushed it deep into the corners of the pan.
Slowly.
Hopeful.

I could hear my mother’s voice.
And hers before that.

Food should never be wasted.

Outside the windows, black water reflected the mast lights from nearby boats.

I listened to the joy in the distance.
Muffled laughter drifting across the anchorage.
Music through an open hatch.
I imagined glasses of prosecco.

The pan was already clean.
I went over it once more with the bread.

I refuse to believe my plate is empty.