He stands halfway down the staircase while I stand at the top. He has two of the pillows I’d earlier stuffed up into the linen closet in his backpack. He is trying to hide them but they are obvious. I ask him why he has them there, and he stutters, stumbles trying to answer. I reach for him and watch as he falls down the stairs.

I felt that I must scream but, again, nothing would come. Even so, I held my mouth open.

The pillows break his fall. He bounces to his feet and shuffles away.

The light on the hill is like spring and it made us hopeful but we knew that soon it would snow. I had hoped it wouldn’t, had hoped it would stay dry so that the light would not be reflected whitely.

The days were long and light blue. The sky was sky colored; there was no other description. He prepared for his time off and I felt guilty that a trip had not been planned. All I could do was think about what was going on inside of my head, what was keeping me from sleeping. We should have been packing for Italy or Portugal.

I searched for Lisbon, Venice.

We visit IKEA. We buy chairs. Next time, next time.

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