He used to write letters for me. Post-it’s, scrawled notes on handkerchiefs, missives on receipts hidden about the house for me to find. ‘I love you’ turned into haiku of small spaces and shaped containers. That was before everything began to fall apart. Not us, him. Not even really him. I didn’t admit it, not until he found a note I’d missed. Demanded to know who had written it, to know if I was having an affair. The first time I thought it a joke, the second — the second was when I realized I was losing him. Losing him to the past, to memories I was not always part of. I said I would stay: sickness, health, richer, poorer. But who is as poor as someone whose loved no longer remembers them? I haven’t been to church in two years. All I’d want to do is scream. And I keep finding those notes, the ones he hid so well against the future. All I can do is cry these days. Cry for so many things.