Nine moments after she came back.
Jan returns to Brooklyn changed. Not loudly. Not in the Eat-Pray-Love way. Just slightly slower, slightly more careful with her time, slightly more honest with herself. The chair is the same. The lamp is the same. Mim is the same. The Saturday boba woman is the same. Jan is not the same.
Came back last night.
The apartment was, somehow, smaller than I remembered. Gone three weeks. The chair was where it was. Lamp where it was. Print tilted. Drawer closed. Radiator clicked. Fridge hummed. In my absence, the apartment had become exactly itself. I'm in the same room, fitting differently. Not the person who left. Not a stranger to her either. Something in between, still deciding.
Mim didn't acknowledge me for exactly twenty-three minutes.
Priya warned me. I let her ignore me. Unpacked half my suitcase in the bedroom, slowly, so Mim could decide. At minute twenty-three, she came down from the chair, walked past, walked back, and head-bumped my hand once. Reconciled. She is currently sitting on a suitcase I haven't finished emptying. We do this. Have done this for three years. The reconciliation took longer than the separation theoretically warranted. I deserved every minute.
The Saturday boba place is in the same place.
The woman is in the same place. First Saturday back. Brown sugar oat, less sweet, no pearls, without asking. She nodded. I nodded. This time, she asked one thing—"你去哪里了?" I said 回家. 杭州. She nodded slowly. 好. I said 好. Walked out with the cup. Drank it slowly on the bench. The bench was the bench. Pigeons were pigeons. The order was the order. I had also been to Hangzhou. Both things were true.
The photo of the river at dusk is still on my phone.
Opened it Wednesday. Looked for forty seconds. Closed the app. Didn't need to look as long. The previous month, I'd stood on the bridge in the photo. Seen the same lights, same boats, same man fishing. The photo is, now, a souvenir of a real thing. It used to be a stand-in. The change is small. That's the whole point.
Sunday at four is its own weather.
The light is the same. The tea is the same. The Monday-feeling is in the next room, waiting. Some weeks it stays there. Some weeks it doesn't. This week it's quiet. Holding the cup with both hands. Noticing the light. Noticing the noticing. The Sunday is doing its job. So am I.
Mom called on Wednesday.
Since I came back, she's started calling on Wednesdays. We didn't discuss this. Didn't say I'd like to call you more often. She just calls on Wednesdays now. I picked up on the third ring. She told me about her neighbor's new business. A fruit she wanted me to look for here. She didn't say I miss you. She didn't need to. I said I'll try the fruit. I said I love you. It is, since the trip, easier to say. It is, also, still slightly hard.
Brought back a small clay teapot.
Mom packed it three different ways to ensure it survived. I drink tea from it in the mornings now — after the espresso, before I'm anyone yet. Tea from her cousin's farm. I don't know exactly what it is. Drink it slowly. Ten minutes before opening the laptop. The teapot on the counter, the steam, the light coming in. I was always going to do this. I just needed the teapot.
Opened the drawer this morning to find a screwdriver.
A museum of leftover screws, a single AAA battery, three rubber bands, a tiny screwdriver, the spare key to an apartment I no longer rent. The sticky note that used to be in the drawer was not in the drawer. The sticky note is on the wall above my desk now. On the wall where I can see it. The drawer doesn't know.
At the kitchen table, notebook open to a fresh page.
Haven't written in two months. Previous page half-finished. Starting a new page anyway. The first line is written. What now. Not a panicked what now. A curious one. Cat on the chair. Teapot by the sink. Lamp on even though the sun is up. I have, somewhere small, started.