When she left, sure the sun was shining, sure the boxman in his truck had forgotten to brake at that dangerous intersection, sure the clouds had cleared two months ago over my mother’s house which made her think there was an explosion and the astronauts’ urine tank had cracked.
Yes, I’d heard rumors, rumors that she would return; that she couldn’t stay away; I’d heard rumors on the molecules the wind brings in from the sea, where, if you listen closely, you can make out the whispers of sailors as they lean to their fellows and say, “I have a child who’s nine years old. ????????????.”
The dogs always bark at inopportune times. Remember when we hid, that first kiss under the porch and Bengi crawled under and started his yapping, drawing the neighbors and the police? The day we fell in love.
She departed. She said, “That first day I left so long ago, I couldn’t get you out of my mind. When we were in Anchorage filming cracks in the earth, steam, and how the birds were drawn there, I remembered that other camera, the one behind the view finder or the eye nipple. Your eye,” she said, “I remembered how you stirred the soup, how you said, ‘The moon’s never as full of light as you’d think’ and so I was impressed by your mysteries.'”
“Look,” I said, “tomorrow’s a new day. And what I said, I didn’t mean. But I’ll need reminding.”
She said, “I was hoping it would work out.”
“But it’s morning,” I said. “Two days isn’t enough.”
“I have to be in Argentina in two days,” she said. “The cracks have appeared there too and the birds are coming. It’s just not what I thought it would be. With you.”
“Then you think too much,” I said.
And she laughed.
And I made coffee. I took it into the sun, got comfortable, and wondered if I were a character and this were drama, what would I write, how would I place things, and where would I start? Would I make her larger than what she is or was; would the clouds be red or black; would I have her go to Argentina; would I call, buy a ticket, and be on a plane tomorrow?
