I’ve forgiven Karen plenty, but I can’t forgive her for not understanding that leaving so you can come back is bullshit. For not understanding that just because I didn’t have time to talk to her, just because I was catching up on sleep, that didn’t mean I wanted her gone. For not understanding that leaving is nothing special. Leaving is just leaving. Staying is the hard thing.

When Perley was two, he learned to say, I love you. He would say, I love you, and Karen and I would stop what we were doing to pick him up and spin him around, to kiss his fat face. Then he would say, I love your eyes. He would say, I love the snake. I love the stove. I love the Mean Aunt. I love the sofa, the house, the sun, the snow, the rain. I love boogers. I love poop. I love pee. I love stew.

At the bottom of the note, Karen wrote, I love you. But I didn’t care. I let the woodstove take it.

11

PERLEY