Outline

How do you spell it? That jagged, tired word. He doesn't stop to think like I do.

I open the door to find the hat box sitting quietly. A bleached rectangle where the mat used to be frames it on a make-believe little mattress. No sheet, of course. I'd read all the books.

His text had read: Done.

With a light breeze pulling my hair forward, I'm frozen at the sight, unable to move. Coincidence. Breathe.

The sigh releases in pieces. Familiar. I see him turning away, heading to the next room, pillow in hand. I see myself turning to our bed and falling onto mine.

The breeze beckons me forward, so I suckle on its direction...exhale again. An unequal stream. It jolts my legs down to fetch the box. Just a box, of course.

In the kitchen, my phone whistles and reads, Brb with more.

The hat box, petal-soft and lighter than it ought to be, has moved to nuzzle into my armpit. He left me alone with you for these precious few minutes.

I find myself wandering to the staircase and up the sherpa steps, down the sherpa hall, to the room with a lingering sun ray. It's never dusty in here, or laden with neglect or silence. I refused to participate in clichés then; now, it's the routine of it that keeps me alive. Petals like to wither.

This house was pastels and raspberry tea, like one a.m. turn-overs into a nest of knitted blankets. A chair in the corner, next to the window, is stacked with cushions and gives me a sense of you when I sit and look out at the room. Just a room, of course, but so you. My knees tuck into my feet, up on the cushions, a posture of comfort with a thin glass lump behind my eyes.

Box moves to lap. Sweetness. Its lid is soft, like two generations of worn silk. Sometimes, I dream of this softness. My hands remember, unable find it in my real life.

I intended to leave my phone on the counter. Still, I want to type out the words. Do you know how hard it is to open this?

Its edges are cute, upper lip of the lid, bottom lip of the box. They part. I can almost hear you breathe in. I remember, briefly, what I'd forgotten–the timbre of your giggle. The lid falls to the rug and suddenly you're vulnerable.

I don't want to see this, not this, not again. Why did you leave it here, knowing I'd open it right before you came back?

A plushie rests on top, little tiger. Your socks, with a pink fringe. A carved moon soap that fills the air with a smell of tears and bath time. I see corners of photographs, splashes of color, notes with pencil scribbles. It's a fine art museum of you.

I am staring, I know I am. It feels inappropriate.

A whistle sounds from the kitchen.

I lift a note out, prying it with virginal care, and my breath trips to pieces.

You're so perfect, holding her. I'm watching you both as you rock by the window. When did her hair get so long? It's like a cloud beneath your chin. I think spring is our season. Thank you for giving us her, my dearest, dearest one.

The words become a shock of rain-shine on my neck and the backs of my hands. My lungs are hiccup-breathing, sniffling through a nose that forgot it could do this.

Tears are falling into the box, onto the tiger, past the soap and into the photographs. I swipe them away, catch my lungs in my hands. For a moment, it's like I could turn around and find you waiting with arms for me to dissolve in. The smell of home.

But I find the lid instead.

I pause. No. I rest it against the box instead, place them on the chair. Yes, I promise.

Turning at the door, I can only see you sleeping, invisible on a mattress outline and no sheet.

Another whistle.

In the kitchen, I find my phone: Want the weighted blanket?

I start to type 'yes,' then notice his second: Omw. Five minutes ago.

Really, it's been enough for the day, for a lifetime. A whole life lost tends to feel like that, sweet fresh air and a cocktail, lost in thought. It drains you unexpectedly, bone-weary. Then that jagged, tired word opens it jaws, ready for you to fall in.

I hadn't wanted to learn how to spell it.