The Mice of 143 Whitcomb, and: Things I Never Wrote

The Mice of 143 Whitcomb

knew us. They watched the fatherhump-back to his studio, where his sighwas an exhale of smoke, where hemuddied paint and waited for dinner.The mice munched their seeds andwatched. When he coughed, they heardthe rattle.

The mice understood the quiet thatgrew between the two girls becausethey saw words bloom like hoarfrost onwindows and stay. The daughters heardthe parents, and the mice heard theescaped hiss of bitch    asshole    bratthe clat of slammed doors.

The family heard their fights—smallstorms in the ceiling, then quiet—thescatter more familiar than    pleasethank you    gesundheit. The family foundtheir shit in drawers, along bookshelves.

The mice were watched by the cat, whotenderly left a purple curl of mouse inthe bathtub each morning. The micewatched the cat.

The    mice    watched    us    always,watched the mother at her quilting, back and forth. The needle flowered too.When she sneezed, the mice saidgesundheit. She drank instant coffee atnight to stay awake through thepeaceful hours, just her and the soundsin the ceiling. The cat coiled at her side.When she turned out the light, the micemade a snack of crackers and chocolatein the pantry.

The mice could tell the youngest'snightmares were dramas acted so thatsomeone would hold her, hear her.When she called, the mice tucked intighter to their bed of stolen yarn. Thedog twitched and growled in her sleep.They knew how the father slept againstthe mother. The oldest sister didn'tsleep. Instead, she listened to themwatching her and to the wind, whichwas a monster at night. When she readby flashlight, the mice looked over hershoulder.

The mice knew the sound of kindlingsplitting in the morning was the slowreturn of warmth, knew the ashes thatoften fell on the floor. When the familycollected around the stove, the only heatin that house, each took a place in achair, on the floor, with books, paints,and knitting. The dog and cat edgedcloser and the father said bitch moveover to the dog and mother both. Whenthe father poured more water into thepot the room smelled like cloves and

smoke, and the mice gathered closer tothe stove, too, and appreciated thetemporary quiet. Snow fell outside. Itwas a cold and loving house.

Things I Never Wrote

—to my sister

The first words in the letter I never wrote you were Forgive mefor the order of our birth. See the snow falling on rhododendrons.See it fill your boot prints. Look at all the different ways there arefor snow to fall. Look at the dying cardinal, that shock of redagainst your window. Look at the sky and think how one syllableisn't enough for those clouds today. How words fail us again and again.Tell yourself everything is going to be ok. Everything's ok, don't call mom.Awe at the architecture of that city you live in. Notice the peoplewalking near you, each one breathing out cold little clouds and thinkhow many destinations there are. Sometimes you can spot a stranger,not on a phone, smiling to herself. When you smile, show your crooked teeth.Go to Central Park and find the giant oak trees, put acorn hats on your fingertips.

Whisper to yourself. Develop a discipline for sketchbooks, for being alone. Shh.Don't pick up your phone. Don't want. Don't call mom again. Shh Shh.Look at the sparkle of wet pavement. Walk on that path of stars. Walkto the vanishing point. And come back to me. I know I wrote thatjust for the poem; we were never in the same place at the same time.Go to the Met alone. Sob at Monet for me. When you leave, sit on the steps.Be patient with the crowds and pigeons; they're only passing through.I forgot it's...