The banister collected dust where the jersey had been. Lisa wiped it and did not narrate the wipe. Narrating was how a house became a museum. She did not want a museum. She wanted a Tuesday. Cole hung a backpack on the banister and she did not stop him. Backpacks were innocent. The innocence was new and she guarded it by saying nothing. Nothing, accurate, remained a reply she trusted.
Mike came for coffee and did not bring Rick. He brought a story about the plant that lived. Lisa said she had heard. Mike said my brother is trying in the small ways and failing in the ways that would make a speech. Lisa said then let him stay small. Mike said I will. They drank the coffee. Cole came in and stole a cookie. Mike said the dog would have stolen two. Cole smiled. The smile was not a verdict. It was a cookie. Lisa put the rest in a tin. Tins were for weeks. She was planning weeks. Weeks were the opposite of a fourth quarter. She could plan them.
Heather did not appear again. The absence was not forgiveness and not a hunt. It was a clinic Lisa did not drive past. Rick did not drive past it either. The gray shirt became a shirt he wore to paint the apartment, then a rag, then nothing. Objects ended. The photo did not end in Cole’s memory. Lisa asked him once, a year on, if the picture still showed up when he closed his eyes. He said sometimes the wall, not the person. She said the wall is green now. He said I know. They left it. Know was enough. The green did the rest.