She recalls red doors

and a tiny snow-draped roof

sloping over eaves

which sits on a shelf

dusted first among knick-knacks

and little treasures.

On day seventeen,

she took to reading bottles

while in the bathtub—

his absence hung thick

like steam, curling hair and words

spoken into air.

She favors the words

with a British “u”, pushing

syllables foreign

to tongue, ear that bounce

from tiles to mirrors and back,

sounding silly, wrong.

The water is warm

and bubbles coat her body

like snowflakes coating

country-sides and flanks

of sheep with wooly sweaters

standing backs to wind.

The phone breaks her dream.

She reaches for a towel,

watching words drain down.