Asides
Meet me at six.
Come upstairs. I’ll leave the door open.
If you want to.
Like the one we drove in Providence.
Died the next year. August, I think.
The night we made the quiche. Ninety in that room.
The jumpsuit with the zipper.
Yes, still.
I cried at least once that you saw. There were others.
The sleeves wore out. I tried.
He would keep running, and one time he jumped over the lighthouse wall.
I know. A beautiful dog.
I remember. You used to cut my hair in the kitchen.
The restaurant is still there. Krishna left for school.
No shower—only a tub. A clawfoot.
Yes, after your last class.
It was Cerulean blue. I did the painting.
Household
You can only vacuum so much; I can only shower so often.
How loud the refrigerator has become.
The binoculars are missing. They were a birthday gift, maybe a Christmas gift.
The cardinal is your favorite bird. It flies when you whistle.
The door keeps opening, closing.
Time for a nap. Time for a nap, and talk later.
Let’s wait a few years. We will make the adjustments, but not this year.
Maybe this weekend we will have people over. A few people.
The grass needs cutting.
She called yesterday, or the day before. I don’t know. She called.
Let’s not worry about the things no one can see.
At some point we can replace the entire thing.
I used to love that show, but can’t watch it any longer.
You loved it, too, but a little less than me.
I don’t have a bedtime. I wish I were one of those people who had a bedtime.
We should rearrange the rooms; we should be closer to the kids, especially now.
It doesn’t matter. It’s not worth it. There is no reason to cry.
No one planned for it to happen that way.
We have the fire pit. People like fire pits. It’s all a matter of scheduling.
When was the last time we took a walk together? There’s something magical about
walks.
I don’t feel like cooking anymore. I don’t mind shopping, but I can’t bring myself to
cook.
This is not the neighborhood for us, if it ever was.
I should text more; I should use more emojis, better ones. I’m not as expressive as I want to be.
I was the first to cough: it began with me. Now everyone’s coughing.
Two glasses of wine. Two eggs. Two turns. The reassurance of small numbers.
It was splendid, on the porch, what you said. You were splendid even after you went silent.
The next thing we should do is paint the steps.
The best painters never use tape. The best cooks never use recipes. Pure abandonment.
Someday we’ll have a cabin in the woods.
Someday we’ll skate down a hill.
I picture you with nothing on but gloves, gardening gloves.
I never found the right glasses or the right shoes despite looking for ten years.
Remember that post-it note we wrote together? Where did we put it? One of those things we
lost, I guess.
You make the best salad. Why is it so much better than mine?
Have the neighbors soured on us? They seem to turn away when I go outside.
We live near the bottom of the hill. I never pictured that as a child.
The words I learned, “oasis,” “atoll,” and so on, without ever knowing the things in themselves.
I learned you, then I made you prettiness, I made you happiness. They were part of you.
