I hardly recall our drives home.  Except for the one where I was griping about your classical music.  

I was always one for lyrics. 

Stepping into your home was like walking into a shrine for all things southwest. 

Kokopellies and roadrunners and pictures of sunset covered mountains.  Magnets of quails and a birdbath in teal.  The heat didn’t seem to sway your love for all things desert.  I used to play outside near that birdbath, alone.  Thinking about the trees and how pretty the Weeping Willow was.  How it resembled hair falling to the floor.  I’d observe praying mantis’ for what seemed like hours wondering how something so unique and strange could exist.  I was fascinated by the murderous females.  Every room was ripe with stereotypical western decor and early recognitions of loneliness.  

The guest room had two single, teal comforter beds.  Only one used, by me.  The bookshelf filled with books you’d read, with me.  I get my choice every time.  The bathtub where I’d take a bath alone, cleaning my hair with swimmer’s shampoo.  The smell still lingers in the recesses of my brain.  The living room where we read, the two of us.  On the cold, no-good-for-a-nap couch that looked like it had mountains on it.  The floor in front of the tv.   Even the tv stand looked like it was made to mimic the mountains in its structure.  I picked the shows with your approval, I played with my nearly hundreds of Barbies.  Never having to wonder if I’d have to share my favorites.  We’d make banana bread in the kitchen.  I quietly spooned around the mixture with one stirrer.  What a revelation when you learn your reality is not another’s.  When you learn your experience of loneliness has its own life and taste.  And banana bread tastes like peace and quiet by a sunny window.  What a paradox to be with someone who is doing everything to be with you, yet you still feel the sting of being alone.