30 May 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 1

The Visitor

by RYO YAMAGUCHI

I wake up, and you are already gone. Every morning it's like this: my eyes flick open, and this punches me into the day; fourteen birds are on the ground outside the window; it seems there's debris in my hair, and then I am standing in the kitchen waiting for the coffee in the microwave. Then she comes. See, she says, but I can't hear her, the plane overhead, or the bugs in the trees. She's mouthing it all, and I am watching. I imagine myself with twenty arms, how I'd let some of them do nothing, always. I'd say, little pets. It's been hours now. She emphasizes that she must be in this one place for a designated period. I'm not sure what to tell her. I'm waiting for you to come home. You will tell me I shouldn't have given her the zucchini bread. You will tell me I don't think. We will be standing in our bald yard. We will not mention certain things, the things that are done. You will tell me I want to be overrun.