This is where we sat once, cinder blocks for back steps, trumpet vine spreading under the siding. You played so many songs on your old harmonica and I danced. When the heat went out, you combed tangles from my hair, fed me straight from the jam jar. The mail piled in the corner— old pennysavers, past dues. You blew out the pilot light, then scattered matchsticks about the kitchen. I taught myself to thread a needle in the dark, to mend a tear. Today the yard is wilder than ever: radio crickets, blue chicory. I carry a mouse, named for you, in the breast pocket of my flannel shirt. She sleeps, paws to her eyes. There are no apologies— we have no words in both our tongues for sorry.