Margarete Hahner. Smaller than life

About

You need to find a new place. An apartment. It can’t be expensive. Not too many stairs. Pain recently appeared in the left knee. You check out a place. It still has the prior tenant’s stuff in it. There’s an odor of familiarity. Sensations of past gatherings. Patchwork quilts. Full of past conversations. Ghost-like statuary. Hands. Stories from stacked newspapers. Images that meet for the first time. Vague, then vivid. A child’s disarray. The colors, muted. Afternoon sunlight through teal and gray curtains. “Who lives here?” “Can’t say.” “What’s the availability?” “Even harder to say.” On the street afterward, you recall a painted fingernail. Remember when you opened a balloon to see what air looked like? You have to get bread and cat food.