Grief

There is a door in the house I grew up in that I only ever saw from the hallway. Now the house is someone else's and the door is anyone's. I keep it shut the same way I keep your number.

You left it on the chair the way you leave a sentence, half-said, still warm, expecting me to finish it. I wore it to the market and the vendors called me by your name; I answered, which is another way of finishing it.