Paperwhites were sagging about the sink.You could smell fresh air on themif you got close enough.Their curtain, white and green,the only one on the kitchen windowAnd through it, snow refused to budge.Odd to have flowers and snoweven if they matched in color.Except the stems, of course,they stood out like the green bottle next to the clear glasses,like the chicken magnetamong those little magnetic wordsthat never spell what you want.Words like “bubble”but not “the” or “and.”Why would I need to write about bubbles?My toe rubbed against the polished maple rungof the tall kitchen stoolsilent rhythm to the dog’s tapping nails,parents mumbling,ever-present radio, NPRor a Cuban CD.A jumbled soundtrackto my moment of thinking nothing,forgetting to check the notesthat came and went,muddling over the fridge;my tiny collage.