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The train lights flickered with each bump in the rails. Home, when she arrived, welcomed her with relief. There you are, said the dim light in the kitchen, left on for comfort. I’ve waited up for you, said the rattle of key in the door.
She thought that might have been joy, or something like it. Something that feels sad as much as it feels like love.
What was the worth of happiness that left behind a crater thrice the size of its impact.
The terror was as wide as the want: a boulder moved from the gaping mouth of a cave.
How quickly did the belly of despair turn itself over into hope, the give of the skin of overripe fruit.
She had held a pear in her hand and she had eaten it skin and all. She had eaten the stem and she had eaten its seeds and she had eaten its core, and the hunger still sat in her like an open maw. She thought: I can hold you and find that I still miss your body. She thought: I can listen to you speak and still miss the sound of your voice.
She had made the kitchen a lovely place. Isabel could cry at it: at how a room could be made, and left behind, and turn terrible by way of absence. How a space could miss a person.
a miracle, she thought, to stand so solidly on what could also engulf you.
