During the divorce, my wife kept the house. “Pick up your stuff by Friday.” I arrived at night unannounced

out whatever’s left.

No softness. No punctuation. Just a final notice.

Then she’ll come inside trailing cold air and grass and childhood, and the house will close around us not as a trap, but as shelter. And I will be grateful, again, for every indifferent force in the universe that put me there in time to hear her scream.