I. Apartment A

Drive careful.
I called after you—
more out of habit
than hope.

The Harley answered
before you did.

You rolled on:
past the mailbox,
past the maple,
past another promise.
Won't be late.
Only a couple beers.
Don't worry--
be back soon!

I don't anymore.
Worry or wait.

I know the math.
It never adds up.

I have my own room now—
Apartment A, I call it.

Your side of the house
still hums and hollers:
sports channels,
motocross races,
conversations held
entirely with the TV.

Chips and crackers.
Just the crumbs,
crammed into the couch.

I vacuum up what's left.

My space
has books.
A kettle.
Plants gone wild
growing and
taking up space.

When I come home,
you rarely notice.
You ask after my day
but don’t wait for the answer.

If you're away all day,
your only interest upon arriving:
Where's the remote?

Funny-not-funny
how a woman becomes a ghost
while still paying a heavy price
for a beautiful home.

There was a time
I stood at the window
until you disappeared.
There was a time
every siren
made my heart stumble.

Then came hospitals.
Scans.
Chemo.
The long nights I learned
to shift my weight
without waking you.

I memorized medication doses
better than birthdays.

I translated the language
of oxygen levels,
blood counts,
and measured hope—
one appointment at a time.

You lived.
We called it a miracle.

I thought miracles
changed people.

Instead, you climbed back
onto the motorcycle.
Returned to bottles and cans.
Laughed at the doctors
and their warnings,
like they belonged
to somebody else.

Worse yet,
you did not see 
an opportunity
to write our third act
any differently.

I spent years helping you
borrow tomorrow.
You spend every day
burning the candle
at both ends.

Moonlight reaches
through the window
of my cozy apartment.
Tucked in my bed,
snuggling my pup,
a solo shadow puppet
dances along the wall,
no longer reaching for you.

A second shadow joins,
forming wings.
I flit. I float.
I fleetly flee.
I fly.

II. Five Feet Down the Hall

Drive safe.
She calls after me.
Sometimes from the deck.
Sometimes from the kitchen.
Sometimes I don't hear it
until I'm halfway
down the driveway.

I raise a hand.
That's enough.
I've never been one
for long goodbyes.
If I'm headed out,
I'm headed out.

Always somewhere to be.
A truck in the ditch.
A roof to patch.
Somebody needs a hand.
You help. You hang out.
Been that way my whole life.

Home's backlog
will always be there.

She used to ask
what time I'd be in.
I'd say, Six.
Sometimes it was nine.
Sometimes midnight.

Plans change.
I figured she knew that.
Never thought much
about promises.

Where's the remote?

The television comes on
not long after I do.
I like the noise.

She goes offline.
Where to?
Down the hall.
Called it Apartment A.
I laughed.

What does she do in there?
I've never asked.
Everybody ought to have
their own space.

Mine's the garage.
The shop.
The road.
The couch.
Wherever I make noise
and spread crumbs.

She never complained much.
Not really.
She just... stopped asking.
Talking, really.

The doctors gave me more years
than anybody expected.
Folks call it a second chance.
I don't know.
I just kept living
the way I'd always lived.

I've always said:
You're born alone.
You die alone.
Never thought how 
that might sound
to the woman
who never left my side.

Treatments.
Medications.
Lifting me up.
Keeping me going.
She drove every mile,
believing my tomorrows
were worth fighting for.

One afternoon,
looking for the scissors.
I found her door standing open.
I'd never really been fully inside.

Every wall covered.
Torn paper collages.
Assemblages.
Old letters. Maps.
Rusted keys.
Buttons. Twine.
Tiny things
I'd have thrown away.
She saved them all.

An entire wall of books.
Journals—
more than I could count.

A desk facing the window.
Just a laptop. No big screen.
Pens in coffee mugs.
Glue. Scissors!
Little boxes full of things
I couldn't name.

Comfy chair dressed in quilts.
A basket overflowing.
Yarn in rainbow colors.
A twin bed against the wall.
Fluffy down, bright pillows.
Plants leaning toward the light.

A room busy with life.
Like somebody lived there.

She sat at the art table,
tearing paper,
moving pieces around,
her latest rescue pup at her feet.
Acoustic guitar playing softly.

Quietly, I backed away.
Forgetting what I came for.

She went about her daily routine with a new, quiet dignity. To the world, nothing had changed; but inside, she had built a sancutary where her spirit finally breathed. - Anzia Yezierska