Our walls were Homespun, Mannered Gold, Brick Path. Colors of the sunset and woolen blankets. Though the ceilings were too high, the conversation too distant, I made a home. Even told it once, “I don’t love you, but I will take care of you, and I will leave you better than I found you.”

I planted flowers and trees, day lillies, irises and figs. Brought in a piano, guitars, recorders, and the djembe I’d carried from Africa in ’91. Hung reminders to laugh, to love. But the walls knew. The marriage was cold. 

Now the house is absent too many papers piled on the countertop, dishes in the sink, crocheted throws on the couch, to curl up under after a bellyful of beef stew and french bread. 

And you live there. Clean, as you’ve always wanted. Surrounded by your gun metal and gray. Without streaks or smudges from my handprint on your heart.