June 9
1, Julian’s socks were next to the stairs when I got home. I picked them up. They were wet.
2. I saw the hat first, then your new passport, your backpack, hers, her shoes, then your socks next to the stairs. I called to you and you said – Cailyn is here. And I said – I know. I saw the evidence.
3. Your socks were just inside the door, next to the landing for the stairs. I picked them up to carry them into the laundry room. They were wet. I thought of how I had found them everyday for years in the couch and felt angry about it. I told you I wouldn’t miss that when you left. You said – yes you will.
4. His things were dumped inside the door – shed really, broadcast on the table and the floor. I thought – I should document this, take photographs of his dumps. Now, every time he leaves things around and I don’t record it I think it’s a missed opportunity. When we stayed with Grandma I resented her dumps, too, as loci of detritus: library books, mail, documents (what sort? Were they meant to be filed?).
5. Now that the couches are in storage, he can’t leave his socks there. So they have moved. Now they block the stairs.
Tiny Events 