The kitchen has trash and recycling strewn all over the floor. Watch your step; there’s glass. You were rageful and in despair. I’m here now. Oh, your Black Dog mug, your favorite, and the Fiestaware? I suppose it’ll break if it’s thrown. The dishes and glasses are haphazard in the dishwasher, but you’ve smashed some glass, so you can’t run the cycle.

I open the basement door and see the laundry basket turned on its side, pouring out your dirty laundry. Shhh, It’s our secret. You sit, I’ll clean, but I’ll make you tea first—Chamomile with local raw honey. I go to the papers and squat down, but my knees ache, so I rest them on the tile floor. Cushioned flooring would be nice but tacky and impractical. You also questioned my ideas.

I start to pick up the papers, bills past due, test results with dirty words written in black permanent marker, and junk mail cluttering up the recycling, like a virus taking over. The broom in the closet.

Soon we are drinking our tea in the comfort of your living room, on your teal blue couch. I remember the story. It was a fight in the store. In the end, you won; in the end, you will win, even if it wasn’t your plan. The tea is nice; its warmth soothes us. You lean back, resting your cup on your lap with one hand, and you laugh, so I laugh. The laughter spills your tea, and then you cry, so I cry. We put our tea on the coffee table and breathe and breathe and breathe. 

You got a promotion at work; the money will help, but you only want to climb to the top of your tower and let down your hair. You realize you’ve been wearing it too tight and wonder if that’s where it started. I’m not sure I follow you. 

“Keeping up appearances,” you say. And not being true to yourself. You were ready to check out, but not from everything you care about. Those things will stay with you forever, even if pockets full of memories are sewn into your clothes. 

The air is warm outside, although the leaves are gone for the season. We climb on the roof; you balance at the top, stating, “I wish I could fly. I would fly away from here.”  You reach your arms out, ready.

I cautiously walk over and guide you off the roof. Here we are, grounded again.

You must take care of everything before it’s too late. Where are the subscriptions? You’ll need to cancel or share a list. What are the bills? What, you don’t want to pay bills anymore? I understand, but the lights must stay on. This is your starting point: keeping the lights on. 

What do we need to know so that they’ll shine bright even when you’ve left the room? I know you’ve always learned to conserve energy, and you thought you had. But carbon footprints can be evasive, but they’re always there.

Where are your papers? Let’s look through them. Oh, the pictures, the cards, and the journal entries. Let’s leave them for last. You reach for your wedding photo, tracing the happy couple with your pinky finger. The future was yours, and you weathered it, you did. You’re strong or stubborn or both.

You laughed when you found a note from a friend who always said he wanted to cuddle, and you always knew you weren’t the cuddling type. You like to toss around the bed. You always had punch-your-lights-out energy, but you tenderly turned off the lights in your children’s rooms.

You’re reading your journal; it’s OK to cry.

Don’t forget to put all the important papers in one place and do you really need 80 pairs of shoes? Will you ever wear this dress again? Then you told me where you were, how you felt, and why you wore it, and I knew we needed to keep it. You’re not sure minimalism has ever been your style, even in the dark, when the lights go out.

You wondered if you ignored it, it would go away. That’s silly; it was there before you knew it. No. We just adapt, change course, and amend. You stood up and reached up to the ceiling onto your tiptoes, stretching as much as you possibly could. Stretching is good, but the doctor said stretching won’t reset things.

Why you, why not me? I’m hurt, but I know you’re scared. You wanted to wear tutus and pink lipstick and dance around town when you’re 95; you’re wearing your light blue Converse and still flaunting your attitude.

It is what it is. What can we change?

Do your children have passports? Ireland is beautiful in spring. Let’s see what they say; we’ll get you there by plane or cloud, and they’ll never leave your sight.

You ask for an apple; you turn it over in your hand. This light pink fruit kisses your lips as you bite into its flesh. You’ve always been hungry. Satisfaction was always a dangling carrot away. 

The doctors ran tests; you never knew you’d wish for something else horrible, but every test that came back negative made you cry. You couldn’t unsee that note in the portal. You always thought you were the shrinking violet, the one behind the scenes, but you’re making everyone stand up and notice now. They’re telling you this is serious, this is complicated. So you visualize another outcome, floating in the air like a balloon until they grab the string and pull you back to the ground.

You spent so long not living, and now you can’t live enough.