I’ve been cleaning this house. First sweeping you out of it, dustballs behind old shoes in your closet, stacks of last year’s catalogs, the gray dirt that clings to clutter, and then, unwittingly, polishing, arranging, even decorating you back in. How you were before when I thought you happy. A smooth stone in every window, broken shells and the feet of owls, the cards and poems I sent you then dusted fondly where they stood until you stopped speaking. It was gradual, your silence. Amidst the noise of our children I chattered on awhile before I noticed, then to keep me company when I felt its chill. It was as if you stood before an empty horizon still, looking back, confused. You couldn’t make out what I was saying, if it was really me, or just the wind. From our third-story room where we lay together under too-bright stars, there only are you truly gone. I have arranged it as a museum and the solemn chastity of my pain guards the dark hours like a cloistered nun, finding in their revelations bright shards paper-thin like mica, shiny but too fragile to hold.