On the Sunday of the small yes, after the wings and the low sound and Cole’s hoarse return, Lisa washed the plate he had used on the carpet the first night. It had been in the back of the cupboard. She washed it anyway. The sauce stain was gone. The memory was not in the ceramic. It was in the choice to keep him in the room. She dried the plate. She put it with the others. Matching plates. No jersey required. She turned off the lamp. The television stayed dark. Somewhere a crowd scored and she did not hear it. Hearing was optional now. The house had its own score. Staying. Pasta. A period. A book at four. A boy who texted a complaint about a referee to his mother because she was the person who had not sent him away. That was the win. She took it upstairs. Monday could have the rest.
Cole kept the program from Pam’s concert in a drawer with ticket stubs from a movie Derek’s mother had taken them to. Stubs were proof of days that were not the family room. He liked proof. Lisa, finding the drawer while looking for batteries, left the stubs. Proof was his. She took the batteries and fixed the remote, which still worked, which still changed nothing important. Remotes were innocent again. She changed a channel and changed it back. The back was the point. She was not trapped in a broadcast.
Rick’s apartment plant made a flower, one, unimpressive. He photographed it and did not send the photo to Lisa. Photos were contaminated. He showed Cole. Cole said it looked like a weed. Rick said it might be. They laughed. The laugh stayed in the apartment. Lisa got a report of pizza and a flower that might be a weed. She said weeds are honest. Cole said that’s what I thought. Honest weeds. The shelf grew. She did not mind the growth. Growth that was not a speech was the only growth she trusted.