Sense

His body was found laying on the kitchen floor in his apartment. Had he been up to date on his rent, he might have been there longer.

I wore my new black shoes with my old black dress, and I told his mother that I was very sorry for her loss.

Back at her house, the coffee was strong, and the little cucumber finger sandwiches were cold. I sat on the piano bench and looked out the picture window at a yard I never played in. That no body ever played in. Nobody. He sat at that piano. I knew that much. I remember that much.

I wished for more to remember.

The drive to the airport was longer than the flight.
And the flight home was shorter than the flight there.

Sometimes there's a secret. And sometimes, there's a sense.

It wasn't safe to walk through that week, but I had to make my way, and I was able to find little islands. I don't want to be removed, even when I am. This wasn't my debt. That wasn't my yard.

Two weeks later I received an acknowledgment in the mail. An ivory card with black lettering, thanking me for the flowers, and for coming. Maybe she knew who I was, maybe she didn't. Maybe she had secrets, or sense.

He liked blackberry brandy in his coffee.

I think of him every time I wear my new black shoes. Sadly, the strongest imprint happened after he died. But something made the way. Something cleared the path, for the sense, of quiet backyards, and pianos.