Her bedroom curtains are always open and I can see when the light beside her bed is off
5:00a.m. Her pillow askew. The sheets thrown back. The slippers gone: I know that both of us are once again awake before dawn.
Then I get sick.
I’m sleeping around the clock. Until one night, I get up a lot to have a pee or take a pill.
I see her light is still on, her white head asleep on her pillow, curled on her side towards the window.
And I still don’t stop to wonder about her because I’m so sick.
Maybe the day after or the one after that. I finally stop and see she’s gone. Along with everything in her room.
The windows are open.
The light of the sun sweeps across the bare floor.
Until someone comes, and her curtains for the first time, are drawn.