Nine moments of the same Sunday at four, late.
Spring 2076. Jan is 78. Jan in the chair. August on the couch. The cat (Nine, now 17) on the chair-arm. The lamp on.
Tuesday morning.
Mei's postcard. She's twenty-four now, first year of comparative literature at BU — she sends one every six weeks or so, has since 2056, twenty years of them in the cream tin on the shelf. This one shows a Cambridge bookstore window. Auntie Jan — saw this. Thought of the chair piece. Love you. — Mei. Her handwriting has Sarah's roundness in the consonants. I put it in the tin. The tin is almost full.
Lin calls Wednesday at 3 PM.
She's 45. Professor at Davis. Divorced since 2068, pragmatically. She has the same shape she's always had — kind and direct and no nonsense about it. We talk thirty-eight minutes: Mei at BU, Henry adjusting to an empty house in Seattle, Daniel at 84 still in Oakland with his second wife. She says I will try about Henry's sixty-second birthday in October. I say that's good enough. She says that's good enough. It is.
Henry's email said just-to-check-in. He shows up Saturday with a Willamette Valley pinot and his carry-on.
Seven years since the last visit. He hugs me at the door — longer than usual, carefuller. He says Auntie Jan. He says I have the entire weekend. I say good. He comes in. The apartment is the apartment.
Henry does the small things Saturday afternoon without being asked — he found the list in his head from the last visit and the FaceTime calls in between.
The bathroom bulb. The loose Phillips-head in the window shade. A gutter clog August has been meaning to handle. Done by 4:42 PM. He doesn't make a thing of it. He fixes; he moves on. The list I've been carrying in my head for two months is gone. I hadn't mentioned the list.
Henry makes pasta Saturday — Anika's recipe, which is Sarah's grandmother's recipe, which means Sarah is in the room.
Good pasta. We talk about Mei's Sebald coursework, Daniel's January cold, Seattle weather. August mentions the bodega-grandson's new child. We talk for a long time. The dinner Saturday was what it needed to be.
Sunday morning, 7:14 AM.
Notebook open. Two sentences: henry leaves at 3. sunday at four after. The morning notes this. The morning is the morning. The teapot is on. Henry is still asleep.
3:14 PM.
Henry hugs me at the door — careful with it. He says I'll come back in the summer. Mei will be back from Boston. We'll come together. I say good. I'll be here. He says yes you will. He means it as comfort. He's right. He goes. I make tea. By 3:42 the apartment is quiet again.
3:42 PM.
Notebook open. Three sentences: Henry was here. The apartment is the apartment. The eleventh notebook is half-full. It is exactly half-full, started November 2074. That's the page. Close the notebook. The chair holds me. Nine on the chair-arm. Sunday at four is coming.
Sunday at four.
Light at 4:42, lower than it used to be, catching the edge of the teapot. August on the couch with the Tranströmer translations — he's had that book for thirty years. The cat on the chair-arm. The lamp not yet on; still enough light. I don't think about how many more of these there are. The tea is warm. The recursion holds.