bookshelves tender_square i pulled down all the volumes i was sure were mine, set aside the ones we'd quibble over. it's too bad i got rid of our doubles eight years prior—i'm losing "sex, drugs, and cocoa puffs," "no logo," "infinte jest," and "the corrections," to name a few. i thought it was romantic back then to do away with extras when we had each other. we couldn't really remember who had what zadie smith's and alice munroe's, which one of owned de beauvoir's "the second sex." he's bummed i'm taking all the knausgaard; he's poured over the "my struggle" series several times, but i'm the one that shoved those books into his hands and said, "read these." i tearfully gave him my father's "i ching" and asked that he care for it. i gave him "bobby fischer's guide to chess" because he plays more than i do. i packed the books i inherited from my grandmother, the titles given to me from hilda, all the cheap classic paperbacks i have yet to put a dent in. (how did i not know i had two copies of "wuthering heights"?) four hundred titles down, each one typed into an inventory spreadsheet to hand to the border, prices estimated, and i'm not even halfway through the books i own yet. 230225 ... tender_square i can't recall the last time either of us dusted. i clear the shelves and swipe the swiffer over the surfaces, pushing particles around. i try to group like books together: short stories, fiction, biography and memoir, sports, religion and philosophy. i rearrange the gaps to make them look intentional, offset with fake plants and family photos, some of which i'm still in. i hide the boxes in the corner by the dining table. i pack away all our wedding accoutrements: a statue of a faceless couple embracing, a pair of straw hedgehogs, a fake floral arrangement in a small milk bottle, and the wooden box containing all our cards and pictures that hung on the fridge of our first home. he says he's moving from this place. he found another property he's interested in across town; i went with him to study it from outside. he told me not to bother with making everything look arranged. i can't help it; i strip away the art from the walls and patch the holes, and can't bear to leave this place looking like anything less than a home even though i'm not in it. creating his spaces has been an extension of my caring for him, giving him a soft place to land when he lost his home at a young age, when he continues to lose family members as the years dwindle away. 230225 what's it to you? who go blather from