The Cabinet Labelled Something Else (Quiet Love)

Lyrics

The house was built in nineteen fifty-three.
The cabinets are original.
Pine, painted white three times now.
The one to the right of the sink has a Dymo label, made on that machine he bought in the nineties.
Black tape, white letters, a little crooked.
It says 'Baking Soda & Spices'.

But open the door.
No allspice, no paprika.
There's the tin of Earl Grey from Fortnum & Mason, a gift from her sister.
The box of chamomile she needs to sleep.
The little bag of loose-leaf Genmaicha from that trip to Kyoto in '08.
Her mug is there.
Blue ceramic, a small chip on the lip.
He bought her a new one in March.
It's still in the box under the sink.
A little jar of local honey, the spoon is always clean.

This is the language they speak.
A dialect of habit, week by week.
Not in letters, not in shouts across a room.
It's a quiet inventory, dispelling the gloom.
It's the cabinet labeled something else.
Love as infrastructure, a well-stocked shelf.

He fills her car with gas on Sunday nights.
Never mentions it.
She leaves the sports page on his side of the table, folded just so.
He sets the DVR for her British mysteries, erases his own shows when the memory gets full.
In winter, he warms her side of the bed with a hot water bottle.
She finds it, still warm, and pushes it away with her feet.
He finds it, cold, on the floor in the morning.

This is the language they speak.
A dialect of habit, week by week.
Not in letters, not in shouts across a room.
It's a quiet inventory, dispelling the gloom.
It's the cabinet labeled something else.
Love as infrastructure, a well-stocked shelf.

A visitor, a nephew, came for dinner once.
Said the house was quiet.
He meant empty.
He didn't know the dialect.
He couldn't read the label on the door.
He was looking for a monument, not the plumbing that makes it all work.

Baking Soda.
And Spices.
The hinge doesn't squeak.
He oiled it last Tuesday.