Perhaps in my relationship with you, I passed through it like a net passes through water, passively snagging whatever happened to drift inside: a patterned white kerchief to wrap around your head, a dish of jet black ink left over from a calligraphy lesson, a drawer full of soft orange towels, your favorite red sandals, a couple of colorless books tucked beneath your pillow, your green, jingle-jangle voice.
Maybe, as you now know, I have kept no souvenirs of our relationship. I don’t want to be a tourist in my own life. No recordings of me weeping very softly at first, then loud enough for you to hear. No journal entries detailing my sleepless nights waiting for you to die, which might be at any time. No more wondering about it. No more walking around with a frown. No memory of you playing my Chim Chim Cher-ee piano music on your violin. Is it possible? I would have liked to have asked you. Yes, since they are both “C” instruments, you no doubt would have replied.
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