An empty cigarette pack in the garbage can under the kitchen sink.
Half drunk glasses of water, mugs of instant coffee.
A black phone charger, snaking lazily out of my laptop on the desk.
Soft gray sneakers under the coffee table.
Your clothes, and your scent, draped over the couch arm, where you must have left them this morning: “…designedly dropped, bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners” (Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”).
* * *
And all this, for me, this small collection, is a series of reminders, saying:
You are real.
Yes! This us exactly the sort of thing housewives love to read. Thank you for living the adventurous life, and then sharing the spice of it with those of us whose luge it’s more quiet (though equally wondrous.)
I have no choice but to tell myself that you were high on painkillers when you wrote this. But I’ll be glad to spice up your luge any day, regardless.