Of that year I remember
the arrangement of rooms.
The television against the wall,
a plant growing toward the window,
the glass table
where we left our books
and the remains of dinner.
The dining room
was not a room
but a continuation
of the living room.
Nothing was very far away.
From where I sat writing
I could see the bed
through an open door,
the kitchen with its white light,
a cup of coffee
among the unfinished things.
There must have been arguments.
There must have been afternoons
when neither of us was happy.
I remember instead
the television speaking
to an empty room,
the quiet ceremony of breakfast,
a yellow notebook,
the small abundance
of having nowhere to go.
Outside the bedroom
was the balcony.
Below it, Mexico City
went about its immense business:
trees bending over the avenue,
pedestrians crossing,
cars moving toward places
whose names I never learned.
We watched it sometimes
without saying anything.
There was nothing
we needed to say.
Now the city has grown older.
So have I.
Perhaps the trees remain.
Perhaps someone stands
where we once stood
and looks across the same avenue.
I wonder whether the room
is still arranged that way,
whether the afternoon light
reaches the dining table,
whether there are books
and empty cups.
These are foolish things
to wonder about.
Yet here I am,
six years later,
remembering a room
in which nothing happened
except
that we lived there.
