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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