When we boarded the train, you could already hear bells ringing over the water. Which is to say, the gates had closed. There would be no decanter on the table, no gloves on your mother’s hands.
You see, even the smallest turn of the wrist is a decision:
Since yesterday, I’ve wanted to tell you the truth about the garden. Its rows of flowers, like a little box with laudanum inside. And of course, the terrace
I’m aware the taxi is waiting. But the streets have been taken with an odd stillness. We both know the story is nothing but a horse in the stable, just waiting to be struck.
(Now to find the ring you’ve wanted to give me all along. But husband, you’re familiar with the landscape. There is no drill, no shovel to dig that hole--)