The milk is spoiling, or has finished the job. The apple-a-day calendar is stuck at March 13, when I flew off despite misgivings about flying. Luckily I’d emptied the garbage, as I always do before leaving. The refrigerator and its white noise set to perpetual.

The collage clippings are scattered on the table, the needles are sunk in the pincushion at a courteous distance. Books, clothes… if I’d only thought a little further. My bag was lightly packed.

The sad thing is the house plants. Some beauties! Maybe the landlady is caring for them, or has taken them home, though I told her not to risk the trip. I don’t want to inquire for fear she’d think I’m prodding her. I’d not be prodded.

The upstairs neighbors continue to make all that noise at bedtime with their rat-like dogs. The orange blossoms outside the bedroom window as fragrant as ever. The throw blanket idle on the parlor chair. The sea right up the street, lapping away.

When I go back, if I go back.