The last box went out with recycling. All things placed and stacked, stuffed inside new drawers, cozy between pillow and sheet. The toilet on the second floor runs, the sound of water set free over board and beam. The quiet hum of this house, learning her sounds, memorizing her breath and deep furnace sighs. And the train’s soft, toot toot, roll and shake, as the night covers us.
“Did you hear it?’
His head covered in blanket and morning light and the sleepy smell of dog. There was the pause between crack of egg and scrape of fork. He read two whole chapters before we had to get into the car. And I sang along with the song on the radio, feeling the words know me as the sky found a watercolor shade of blue.
I like it here, this new place, where hands feel less gripped by time and strain of commute. And three small boys, with eyes perched behind headrests, the shells of boyhood stacked inside this rearview mirror looking back.
And I wondered if it would find me here, the words, the cut, the studio swell where eyes fill with tears and there is the deep leaning on spirit. I wondered if it would find me here, in walls not my own, once, made real by touch.
His hand placing the loose hair behind my ear.
I hear it.
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