Chandelier

I don’t know what happened to the chandelier. I spent hours looking for it. One that was old. One that would last.

That would be enough.

He’ll look up at it while my head is on his lap. He’ll look down at me and smile. My eyes will have new creases. His cruel mouth will be softer.

Eventually I’ll stop noticing the chandelier. Our daughter will hate authority. She’ll hate me for a while and love him. I’ll try not to take it personally. I will.

Nothing will feel so bad. There will be a tomorrow. And another. And another.

I wonder if he ever settled on a chandelier. If he looks at it every day without remembering.

I wonder if there’s someone else beneath it now. If she says she loves the chandelier.

If he pauses.

There is something humiliating about the mind deciding the question it can survive asking. About memorizing the sound of someone’s breathing only to have it collapse into a light fixture.