She goes out to hang the windchimein her nightie and her work boots.It’s six-thirty in the morningand she’s standing on the plastic ice chesttiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,windchime in her left hand,hammer in her right, the nailgripped tight between her teethbut nothing happens next becauseshe’s trying to figure outhow to switch #1 with #3.She must have been standing in the kitchen,coffee in her hand, asleep,when she heard it—the wind blowingthrough the sound the windchimewasn’t makingbecause it wasn’t there.No one, including me, especially anymore believestill death do us part,but I can see what I would miss in leaving—the way her ankles go into the work bootsas she stands upon the ice chest;the problem scrunched into her forehead;the little kissable mouthwith the nail in it.
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