how are you

“how are you”—not a question, really.

not a worry for the light or shadow on your face,

not a wondering of what fragrance your mood wears today,

not a measure of how high the waves inside you rise.

“how are you” is just another “hello."

and so

you’re meant to always say, “good.”

don’t forget the “and you?”

they’ll likely offer a soft smile

and reply, “i’m fine, thank you.”

but that time,

her “how are you” felt different somehow.

laced between gladness and affection

was a hint of worry.

it seemed to ask, are you truly okay?

and in that moment,

i nearly said, i’m not fine—tears rising,

but held them back.

with the same even voice i always used,

“it’s just been a busy time,” i said.

though maybe she knew,

busy wasn’t the reason at all.

even after all that silence between us,

her kindness hadn’t dimmed.

sensing my unease, she gently changed the subject:

“remember?

that day i came to your place

you tried to bake cookies, but burned them all.

still, they tasted good.”

and so, we laughed

brushing the faded edges of an old memory.

yet perhaps the smile had stayed too long in the oven

a little bitter now.

and that shared memory—left out in the cold too long—

had cooled.

maybe, we both understood.

she wouldn’t—or couldn’t—visit again.

and this call, begun with “how are you,”

would soon drift quietly to its end.