Things to Take

I went over the list again and again, on the long drive out to the home I’d left such a short time ago. I rehearsed my performance, illusory strength I knew I’d need, for this one last meeting, this necessary gathering over some physical property. I entered

not wanting to stay a moment longer than necessary, not wanting any debate, any negotiation, any volatile atmosphere our sparking emotions could ignite. Just take what I had to have, reveal nothing, draw my lips tight, not engage, all said and no reason to say any of it again.

This mask, that book, the small TV. “No, keep the scrapbook. I have pictures.” This painting, that bowl. I know we both bought the Turkish rug. Stays here.

“Is that all you want?” you said, but I didn’t bite. You sat with your back to me, playing some computer game, watching me with the back of your head. “I think that’s it,” I said, “I’m leaving.”

And it all fell apart, first a pale pleading that soon became an awful wail, the sky shattered, the why howling up toward an uncaring moon, you slid from your chair to your knees, tears now a flood, your whole body a trembling ruin, and I stood, knowing that this was where I came to you, wrapped you in my arms, put the world back together again, and nothing changed.

“I’ve taken all I can,” I said, and picked up the freighted box, turned from the anguish and walked out the door, leaving many small objects: my heart, lost pride, some shirts.