The clocks are all an hour off

A dress that has been drying over the curtain rod for nearly a month.

A dead plant.

The water comes out of the showerhead in rusty orange.

We're home.

A quarter-empty bottle of the "cheapest-finest wine" from Straw Valley.

(Remember that night?)

Counters wiped clean.

Emptied garbage can.

Mark took care of all that.

Spotless kitchen.

Dishwasher filled with clean dishes.

(Why did we keep that wine?)

The vase of dried lavender I'd knocked over in the bathroom is still lying there on the floor.

I did live here.

It could be like I just left that morning.

Except there are no half-empty coffee mugs sitting out.

Bandit's bed is missing. A pillow. A blanket. Things from the car ride.

The mailbox full of mail. Becomes a brown paper bag full of junk mail.

And the clocks are all an hour off.

I shiver and turn the heat back on.

But Bandit won't come back inside.

Just in case I'm leaving again.

He understands.

Impermanence.

My Buddha puppy.



You can't lie to a dog.


I let him keep watch outside.