She lets go of the notebook, and
of course it falls, lands with a
“pluff” on the comforter as she walks
past on her way out of the room.

Abandoned? How so?

Don’t make her say it. . . . “I left my sons, moved
away from them so,” she says, “I could find myself.”

Don’t make her say it: “I will leave you too as
I have been left. First him, then him, then another
him. I will gravitate toward you, dance with you in
twinned orbit. But you must know I will let go.”

It must be said: “I can’t be your anchor. I am
too intemperate, too much like the weather.
Having been left, I will leave. Having left, I am gone.
May I be forgiven if by leaving I cause you any harm.”

Now that that’s been said, let’s begin
again—pick up where we left off: “Your tea
is cold,” she says. “Would you like me
to warm it up for you?”