Today the bass booming through the neighborhood is sad, like the nuisance rose that comes back wilder with each harsh pruning and which one day I will rip out altogether, wearing leather gloves to the elbow. I want to cry at all of it: the energy of the newlyweds next door, their confidence tackling lawn grubs, the zeal of their decorating, their fights. How shiny black their grill. And the German shepherd pup, ears and nose too long for who he is today, and the bravado of the girl spray-painting her flip-flops gold for the prom, the knees of the mailman, still white in April, exposed below the regulation bermudas. I am not talking remembrances here, nor ruin. This is not the loneliness of my grandmother’s elephant brooch, red, white, and blue rhinestones resting in my jewelry box, not the cousin who ate candles the last three days he was alive. It is not even a longing for the reliable fathers in the old neighborhood, that insistent piano note backed by strings. Today I tear up seeing vinegar and oil refuse to mix, watching the bastard across the street repaint the little Amish buggy and figurines and set them for summer on his unused porch, his tulips lined up singly, sousaphone players in a high-school band. Today I’m sad because the lawn mower starts and the newspaper slaps the front door. I weep to see the pantry shelves crowded with canned soup and peaches, how lemons stacked in a white bowl resemble grief.