On moving day, wiping the tape marks off the windowsill, I find myself facing the last view I saw in that house. The spot where sunlight pooled between the cardboard boxes stayed with me a long time.

The evening of moving day, I lay down where the boxes had been emptied, and for the first time there was a morning of looking at the same wall.

In an empty pot on the balcony of the house I moved into, one dry leaf hung its head. I watered it, and three days later, a new shoot came up beside that leaf.