The coffee’s cold.
I’ve been staring at it
for an hour.
Don’t want to get up—
kitchen table the glue
holding me together.
A knock at the back door—
Sandee with a flower arrangement
that smells a lot like Lulu’s
Dollar Store perfume.
“Hey, baby doll.”
She walks in a circle, floor creaking
under her weight—
unsure of where to put the flowers
or what to say.
Lays the bouquet on the counter.
Picks me up out of the chair,
bear hugs me until my eyes bulge.
Sets me down.
Kisses my forehead.
The dog leans against her leg.
“Hey, my cows were acting weird
this morning. Yours?”
“I sold mine. This is all I have left.
Gonna hang in my truck.”
I hand her a copper cowbell.
Sandee turns the bell over in her hands.
It’ll rattle every time you hit a pothole,”
she says. Then adds,
“That’s probably the point.”
She gives it back,
eyes drifting toward the living room—
empty boxes everywhere.
Sandee hangs her jacket,
packs like she’s bagging groceries
while I watch—
inertia my new hobby.
A few hours later,
boxes are sealed and stacked.
“What furniture you taking?”
Sandee asks, wiping sweat
with a shirt sleeve.
“Nothing. Except that.”
I point to the old green chair
by the window.
“You’re taking that old thing!”
Sandee stares at it,
pauses—as though remembering.
Runs a hand
along frayed fabric.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Kate.
I’ll carry it out to the truck.”
Twenty boxes and a duct-taped
green chair.
I follow it all to what’s next.
