I love you, little Honda Element, because you are so adaptable. I can jump in and put the back seats up or down in two minutes. You can hold paintings as big as 60” x 48”, or carry four people. You have all-wheel drive, so I don’t have to worry about the snow in winter, yet you are small enough for me to maneuver into any parking spot. And I can always find you in a crowded parking lot because you are a funny shape and a bright orange color. You are the car for me!
I love you, flexible living room. You have no carpet on your floor and the sparse light-weight furniture slides around easily. I can use you as a piano studio, an exercise room, a movie theatre, an extra guest-room, or a conversation pit just by moving chairs, benches, mats and end tables around. You are the living room for me!
I love you, Gramicci pants. Your material is soft and pliable. You have an elastic waist that stretches and shrinks to accommodate mine. You come in a light-weight summer version or a heavier, warmer winter one. Every year there are new colors, though I tend to stick with black and gray and only get new ones when my old ones have too many holes. I am wearing you right now, Gramicci pants. You are the pants for me!
I love you, little palette knife. You have been mine for over fifty years—lost to me briefly when I left California for New Jersey with my nine-month-old baby and one suitcase, but returned when my California sister sent you back along with all the tubes of oil paint and brushes. The brushes got ruined when I switched to acrylics, and I finally gave the tubes of oil paint—still perfectly good—to my art student granddaughter, but I saved and preserved you all these years, palette knife. I dip you in water and wipe you clean each time I use you so that you’ll always be with me, fresh and ready for the next canvas. You are the palette knife for me!
I love you, silent, empty house. You are simple and don’t require too much from me. You are as empty as I can make you, and that is very empty now that all the things in you are mine only. Your walk-in closet is more than ample for one person—so spare now that Adrian’s clothes and shoes have been removed. You spoil me with space, and yet you ask little in terms of care. I could fill you up with more things, but I abhor tchotchkes and knick-knacks. I prefer the emptiness that can’t be filled. I prefer the hollow sound.
I walk through your halls in shoeless feet, listening.
