MargenWe shut the house in September and the whole summer stayed inside, waiting for us.
The light that came in at six went on coming in at six, though there was no longer anyone to watch it cross the tiled floor. The blue towel stayed hanging from the back of the chair. In the bottom of a glass there was a finger of water that kept going down, slowly, the way someone remembers something.
We came back in June with cold keys and the shut-up smell greeted us like an old dog. The house was not sad. It had been keeping things. We opened it all at once, every window at the same time, and for a moment the two draughts, the one from inside and the one from outside, met in the hallway and did not know which of them was the present.