They stand next to a kitchen island.
One clutches an orange peeling its layers,
her sweater casual and her hair tied back.
The other, with a tight smile,
gazing down at reflections on a bottle,
her hair loose and hands clutching the counter.
This is not our home but we break bread and
drink wine
on a night meant for blood relations;
we silently wish the world flat
so if we climbed high enough,
we could see them tonight.
I stand here soaking in the moment,
trying to capture the smells of cardamom
and cinnamon, sounds of the tv nearby,
Christmas lights strung up,
light-hearted laughter from
soon-friends soon-strangers.
We are perpendicular lines, meeting
at this house for a brief pause.
Our strange family of strangers
done up in monochrome-- our colors
brightened by laughter lines.