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Remember when
Remember when
we visited the old lady next door?
We brought flowers
and ten small, round cookies
on a paper plate.
We got home,
and you wept,
saying you’d rather die before
living alone
so close to death.
I kept you in my arms
and said, “Darling, she is happier
than you’ll ever be
because she does not live
in fear.”
The next morning,
I came home from work to hear
the phone ringing. You
were not there to
give my welcome kisses.
The call was a collector—
some hobbyist inquiring
about the stones
in the garden.
You had made the bed
with perfect hospital corners,
an indentation lingering in one pillow
where your head had been
hours before.
Later, a knock at the door
pulled me away from my solo dinner.
The old woman
from the next apartment stood
shivering in the cold.
Wordless, she placed a crisp,
white envelope in my hand
and hobbled away.
The script inside was yours.
“I’m going to the ocean,” it said,
“where I can feel the sand
between my toes
and learn to swim.
Enjoy your time alone,
but I’m sure you’ll be fine.
After all, do you not
live without fear?”
