The city is a house with many rooms. It is impossible to get lost. In one room, your mother is buying a white dress. In another, I am reading you a story.

I am reading you a story from another room. It’s ridiculous, really. Your body breathes on a white bed. I want to open

a door to yesterday at the bar, where we sipped margaritas and you said I needed to do something about my hair. I want to plunge into the first line of this story.

We sipped margaritas and you said I should watch this ridiculous film. Your mother is buying a white dress. The vendor shows her the tiny pearls sewn on its neckline. I am pretending

to read you a story as I sit on the other side of the city. In the car on the way to my wedding, you held the train of my dress. You brushed the hair off my forehead and looked me in the eye. Your body lies

on a white bed. I want to pull myself through the first line of this story. I want to put my hand on the mouth of the vendor who asks: what occasion? Your mother strokes the tiny pearls.

The priest says one who dies moves from one room to another. In this city, this house, nothing is lost. Your mother buys you a white dress, end of story.

It’s ridiculous, of course. I pound my fists on the door to another room. I hold my breath and wait for an answer.