I don’t say that to explain where she is. I say it to explain why I am down here, in the dark of the living room, watching the grandfather clock’s pendulum tick away the seconds she no longer marks. I say it because her name—the one she took from me, the one that still sits on our mail—has become a kind of spell. A warning label for the rest of the house.
My wife is upstairs, Serena Hill.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow, probably. But she is there . And while she is there—breathing, existing, holding onto the far side of the bed with her back to the door—I am still married. Still here. Still the man who says her full name in the empty kitchen as if it might call her back. my wife is upstairs serena hill
I sit on the couch. The coffee cup beside me is cold. The novel in my lap hasn’t turned a page in an hour. This is the geography of our marriage now—vertical, stratified. She occupies the altitude of grief, and I occupy the basement of patience. There is a staircase between us. Seventeen steps. Each one a negotiation. I don’t say that to explain where she is
And that is the only prayer I have left. A warning label for the rest of the house
She is not coming down.
My wife is upstairs, Serena Hill.
Atgal
Įdėti
Paieška
Naujausi
Populiariausi
Vartotojams