THAT LONE.

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THAT
LONE.
YES
ECAUSE
OVERING
KULL.

SHE
BUT
COULDN'T
WHEN
MY
MY

WON'T
SHE
EVEN
SHE
SHIRT
FACE

DIE

AND
DIDN'T
THE
SAW

SEE
WAS
LIKE

LEAVE
SAY
LOOK
THE

OVER
A

POCKET,

ME
ANYTHING.
IN
HER
BRUISES,
MY
HEAD,
OR
A

MY FEELINGS
 
They are announcing flights over the speakers. We are not listening. They do not matter to us, because we are not going
nywhere.
miss you already, Oskar. I missed you even when I was with you. That's been my problem. I miss what I already have,
nd I surround myself with things that are missing.
very time I put in a new page, I look at your grandfather. I am so relieved to see his face. It makes me feel safe. His
houlders are pinched. His spine is curved. In Dresden he was a giant. I'm glad that his hands are still rough. The
culptures never left them.
didn't notice until now that he is still wearing his wedding ring. I wonder if he put it on when he came back or if he wore
t all those years. Before I came here I locked up the apartment. I turned off the lights and made sure none of the faucets
eaked. It's hard to say goodbye to the place you've lived. It can be as hard as saying goodbye to a person. We moved in
fter we were married. It had more room than his apartment. We needed it. We needed room for all of the animals, and
e needed room between us. Your grandfather bought the most expensive insurance policy. A man from the company
ame over to take pictures. If anything happened, they would be able to rebuild the apartment again exactly as it was. He
ook a roll of film. He took a picture of the floor, a picture of the fireplace, a picture of the bathtub. I never confused what
I had with what I was. When the man left, your grandfather took out his own camera and started taking more pictures.
What are you doing? I asked him.
Better safe than sorry, he wrote. At the time I thought he was right, but I am not sure anymore.
He took pictures of everything. Of the undersides of the shelves in the closet. Of the backs of the mirrors. Even the broken
things. The things you would not want to remember. He could have rebuilt the apartment by taping together the pictures.
And the doorknobs. He took a picture of every doorknob in the apartment. Every one. As if the world and its future
depended on each doorknob. As if we would be thinking about doorknobs should we ever actually need to use the
pictures of them.
I don't know why that hurt me so much.
I told him, They are not even nice doorknobs.
He wrote, But they are our doorknobs.
I was his too.
He never took pictures of me, and we didn't buy life insurance.
He kept one set of the pictures in his dresser. He taped another set into his daybooks, so they'd always be with him, in
case something happened at home.
Our marriage was not unhappy, Oskar. He knew how to make me laugh. And sometimes I made him laugh. We had to
make rules, but who doesn't. There is nothing wrong with compromising. Even if you compromise almost everything.
He got a job at a jewelry store, because he knew the machines. He worked so hard that they made him assistant manager,
and then manager. He did not care about jewelry. He hated it. He used to say jewelry is the opposite of sculpture.
But it was a living, and he promised me that was OK.
We got our own store in a neighborhood that was next to a bad neighborhood. It was open from eleven in the morning
until six at night.
But there was always work to be done.
We spent our lives making livings.
Sometimes he would go to the airport after work. I asked him to get me papers and magazines. At first this was because I
wanted to learn American expressions. But I gave up on that. I still asked him to go. I knew that he needed my permission
to go. It was not out of kindness that I sent him.
We tried so hard. We were always trying to help each other. But not because we were helpless. He needed to get things
for me, just as I needed to get things for him. It gave us purpose. Sometimes I would ask him for something that I did not
even want, just to let him get it for me. We spent our days trying to help each other help each other. I would get his
slippers. He would make my tea. I would turn up the heat so he could turn up the air conditioner so I could turn up the
heat. His hands didn't lose their roughness.
It was Halloween. Our first in the apartment. The doorbell rang. Your grandfather was at the airport. I opened the door
and a child was standing there in a white sheet with holes cut out for her eyes. Trick or treat! she said. I took a step back.
Who is that?
I'm a ghost!
What are you wearing that for?
It's Halloween!
I don't know what that means.

Kids dress up and knock on doors, and you give them candy.
I don't have any candy.
It's Hal-lo-ween!
I told her to wait. I went to the bedroom. I took an envelope from underneath the mattress. Our savings. Our living. I took
out two one-hundred-dollar bills and put them in a different envelope, which I gave to the ghost.
I was paying her to go away.
I closed the door and turned off the lights so no more children would ring our bell.
The animals must have understood, because they surrounded me and pressed into me. I did not say anything when your
randfather came home that night. I thanked him for the papers and magazines. I went to the guest room and pretended
to write. I hit the space bar again and again and again. My life story was spaces.
The days passed one at a time. And sometimes less than one at a time. We looked at each other and drew maps in our
heads. I told him my eyes were crummy, because I wanted him to pay attention to me. We made safe places in the
apartment where you could go and not exist.
I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness.
We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had
to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew that he wasn't thinking of me.
He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push through me to somewhere else.
Why does anyone ever make love?
A year passed. Another year. Another year. Another.
We made livings.
I never forgot about the ghost.
I needed a child.
What does it mean to need a child?
One morning I awoke and understood the hole in the middle of me.
I realized that I could compromise my life, but not life after me.
I couldn't explain it. The need came before explanations.
It was not out of weakness that I made it happen, but it was not out of strength either. It was out of need. I needed a
child.
I tried to hide it from him. I tried to wait to tell him until it was too late to do anything about it. It was the ultimate secret.
Life. I kept it safe inside me. I took it around. Like the apartment was inside his books. I wore loose shirts. I sat with
pillows on my lap. I was naked only in nothing places.
But I could not keep it a secret forever.
We were lying in bed in the darkness. I did not know how to say it. I knew, but I could not say it. I took one of his
daybooks from the bedside table.
The apartment had never been darker.
I turned on the lamp.
It became bright around us.
The apartment became darker.
I wrote, I am pregnant.
I handed it to him. He read it.
He took the pen and wrote, How could that have happened? I wrote, I made it happen.
He wrote, But we had a rule.
The next page was a doorknob.
I turned the page and wrote, I broke the rule.
He sat up in bed. I don't know how much time passed.
He wrote, Everything will be OK.
I told him OK wasn't enough.
Everything will be OK perfect.
I told him there was nothing left for a lie to protect.
verything will be OK perfect.
I started to cry.
It was the first time I had ever cried in front of him. It felt like making love.
asked him something I had needed to know since we made that first nothing place years before.
hat are we? Something or nothing?
e covered my face with his hands and lifted them off.
did not know what that meant.
he next morning I woke up with a terrible cold.