Paul says I cannot carry her. I say she is my sister. Both true. The bag by the shoes is packed for Bev’s weekend and then it is not I look down a street that is not hers. The door seals. That sound is the difference in our lives and I hate that I can hear it. I call. She says she is fine. I water a pot that does not need water. I hate that I can hear it. Paul puts a hand on my back as if I were a planning notice that might peel. I love him. I do not tell Bev that, because love in a porch can sound like a boast. I hate that I can hear it. I hate that I can hear it.
