At our monthly gathering, a friend close to retirement said she had finally moved into her own apartment, years afterliving with a partner in his house. Someonewanted to know if she wasn't lonely, if she didn't now miss the way he cooked for her,or how … | Luisa A. Igloria May 1 | At our monthly gathering, a friend close to retirement said she had finally moved into her own apartment, years after living with a partner in his house. Someone wanted to know if she wasn't lonely, if she didn't now miss the way he cooked for her, or how every now and then he'd filled the garden with music bands and guests milling around under garlands of light, wine glasses in hand. But I think I can understand that kind of need—which doesn't mean the desire for erasure, not yet. The anxious wind settles around rooftops, and the call of birds carries high into the trees. In public gardens, irises start to unfurl their frilly skirts, and hydrangeas rise from the tight whorls of leaves. Born and raised in a house where people came and went and doors were never closed, an armchair in a corner or the top of a double bed became a whole planet; became a vessel for sailing away.
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