By H.A. Luck
My old blue linen shirt. Crumpled just right to match your morning blues. You needed your coffee straight out of the gate. That is some memory, you walking into the kitchen, in nothing but that shirt, to brew up. And then coming back to bed. I wouldn’t take that shirt back for whatever.
The corkscrew someone gave us. It must have been one of your friends because it isn’t rattling around any of my drawers. It could have been one of the casualties, though. That was what we called them, the things that got broken or thrown away during our last times. Casualties. Hot pink that thing was, with the word ‘celebrate’ in black script on the handle. We had a lot of use for that corkscrew. A lot of celebrating but in the end, too much of whatever the opposite of celebrate is.
Books. And we had any amount of them. You brought yours and I had mine and they got all mixed up and then there were new ones all the time, it’s as if they bred, and they all became ours. That was a hell of a tangled web to unweave. Those books became a battlefield. No quarter asked or given.
The sofa. The one we lugged five city blocks. A lot of stories in that sofa. Not all of them ours. I might still have a picture of you lying on it, taking a rest, taking your ease about halfway to ours. You can start to wonder why people put stuff out like that that. Maybe they can’t stand to see their own stories anymore in the things that they own.
The do-everything pan. The heavy one. We called it our cowboy pan. Cast iron and some rust but everything we put into it came out just right. We had other pans. But the kitchen would have been set up with just that one. You sent it in my direction once and I can still see it coming, end over heavy end. I ducked and it went through the window. We laughed about it later, in bed, drunk. I remember walking barefoot across the wet lawn to retrieve it.
H.A. Luck was raised and educated in Baltimore, Maryland and attended the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. He currently lives in Bern, Switzerland, where he is a writer and teacher.