Sienna

I liked it when you listened to music. It often meant that you’d sing along. And during the times you were standing, I’d watch you sway with the melody. Quite often I would step out to our backyard and find you hanging up clothes, sundress dancing in the wind, the summer sun shining through your hair, and your voice. Your voice. I think the birds stood at attention when you sang.

I liked when we read together. Each evening, when the sky had begun to dim but had not lost all its light. I would sit by your side. You would rest your legs on my lap. You’d read, then I. And when we could spot the faint outline of the moon, we would go back in to our room. You narrated perfectly and whenever you voiced a different character, you had a different voice to boot. When it was my turn, you’d tease my monotone voice, and I’d comply with your demands. They never sounded right to me. You rather liked them. You never said it, but you’d smile, and I’d see it out of the corner of my eye. And as I read, tracing each line with my pointer finger, I could feel your eyes on me, some evenings I’d feel them on my lips, others on my eyes. But always on me.

And so, when I returned yesterday to you frantically weaving between rooms, your things in your hands, and from your hands to your box, and from there you would move to another room. A hairdryer from the bathroom, shoes from the closet, everything into the box. I watched you organise all the items: shoes in the back zip, clothes in the front, toiletries inside your shoes. I did not know what this was for. Worse, I did not know what to say. I stood there. I watched you. Eventually, you were done. And then you were gone. You did not look my way when you walked past me in the doorway. You did not look back once you had made your way to the door. You did not return the next day, or the next week, or in the last year. A year spent hoping you would return for your poster. Enough time had passed for me to know what to say.