We went nowhere together. We spent weekends
on the couch or sprawled out on the floor playing games
of rummy or gin while raindrops made trails
down the windowpanes. On sun-streaked afternoons,
we pulled weeds in the back garden or aired
rooms that still smelled dry and sour, like ancient linen
and the lives of others. In the movies we watched
on nights when the clouds obscured the stars,
life seemed a series of important moments strung
together with jaunty conversations and a car crash.
Our life wasn’t like that– or it was, but
with long stretches of monotony between
the big, exciting moments. Lots of quiet lulls
and Wednesday afternoons.
I was soaping dishes in the kitchen sink, watching
light and wind filter through the stained
glass chimes you hung out on the porch,
when I thought that the exciting bits weren’t
so important after all. In the long run, the best days
were the ones in which you bought asparagus
from a plaid-shirted farmer and didn’t overcook it, or
when I found good beer on sale and we drank
on the porch while the stars came out.
We went nowhere together, here in this house
we rebuilt ourselves, under these rafter beams
you planed with your own hands. But that was everywhere.