We will live in a corner house.
And when it pours in the springtime, the cherry blossoms will float down, blanketing the block in pink icing. They will create a new earth; water will clear away the old. I will sit in our bay window while you do the crossword in the kitchen. I will count the yellow taxis that roll by and the poor souls shrouded by large black umbrellas who fall victim to the not so shallow puddle at the base of our porch. This yellowed kitchen is a concert hall and we are the music, crowd, and singer. When I miss you, I just put on that Nina Simone record, the one you said was playing the night we met. I don’t remember, but you do—you always do. You follow behind while I scour the garage sale at the white picket fence house two streets over. My hands run over frayed garments, well-loved by someone else. I will lay in my favorite spot on the grass you’ve just mowed. You will admire the rays in between sneezes and red-rimmed eyes.
Our beloved, ancient couch will be the first thing we move in. It will find its place in the center of a room covered in dark hardwoods. My fingers will trace the outline of carefully embroidered flowers as I’ve done a hundred times before. Too exhausted to lift anything else, we will collapse into its well known, sun-faded grooves.
At the end of our days, when the sun has fallen, we settle into the weathered, flowered couch. Your grandmother gave it to us. It was her mother’s. The cushions wear their age as she did. They cradle our bodies just right, morphed to our conjoined form over countless Sundays of use. I will lean into you and brush the hair from your shoulder. I will kiss your cheek and you will turn to meet me halfway. You taste like you always have: warm. Some nights we dance—off the couch, on our feet, around the peeling hardwoods. Nina’s voice rings through the speakers. You throw your head back to match her croon. I laugh in between steps—not because it’s funny, but because I love you.
Large oak trees will line our street. They’d be ominous if they weren’t so saintly. Quiet but never barren, home to laughter and lost kitten signs. Streets that swell with multi-colored leaves come autumn. You will point, placing bets on when they will fall. Just when we think they can’t hold anymore, we wake to find the asphalt submerged under a rust-colored sea. One that crunches under the running feet of eager vampires pushing their fangs back into place. The bloodsuckers are followed in single file by ghosts wearing tennis shoes and fire fighters with pigtails. You and I will wait for them to reach our front porch; the light is on. We pass out king-sized candy bars; our house will have quite the reputation. I make my best costume guess as the little ones arrive on our doorstep and reward them with sweets regardless of my blunders. When we’ve run out of currency, our jack-o’-lanterns still burn bright, so we sit on the rickety steps. When the winds reach our bones, we retreat to the television – back to that flowered couch. We sink into its cushions and I can feel all the other hallowed nights we’ve had together as if they’re happening all over again. We hear wolves howling over the screams of teenagers who need to be treated like adults. You slip out of costume still covered in makeup, half you, half make-believe.
—Anaiis Rios-Kasoga
Design by Etai Smotrich-Barr
