A jet booms above as I catch sight of the unopened boxes in the living room, the tape still securing tight the top of the box. There was this huge one by the window. That must be the bookshelves from the antique shop when we were shopping for furniture for our flat—but now it’ll be just your flat. In another life, or even just a few days ago, I would’ve opened it for a look, and gawked at its ornate rococo finishes again.
In the afternoon heat I let myself pause. This is the only place I can stop amidst all the planning I have to do. I hear only nothing now. I feel the acid tears again, and a howl rises from my tight chest again.
