MargenTwelve boxes. A life fits in twelve boxes with room to spare for fear.
The one marked FRAGILE holds no glasses: it holds the photos of a summer in which we all appear, still not knowing.
The sofa stays. The walls stay, with the holes from the pictures like scars from operations that went well.
How strange, the last walk through an empty house: the rooms give back your footsteps as if they no longer knew you, the echo no longer calls you by your first name.
I close the door. I leave the keys on the table, that gesture so much like returning a body you were lent to live inside for a while.