Molding raspberries are the only thing left in the fridge. Boxes that smell of mildew, full of our trinkets from the dead, wait to be carried out like children over the flooding waters of our leaving. The house does not want to cover you or cover for you, you have no loyal alibi in this neighborhood, no scapegoat for the mind you murdered, the home you let ruin, keep moving / don’t drown. We downsize again and again until we are only a family on a finger’s tip, only beggars in a league of beggars, only confused letters sent but undelivered. I try to make you let anything go but you have a strong grip, so we get more boxes. We have a knack for standing in the same place good or bad, until the world kicks us out on our asses. I have become your smaller race car on an infinity track, following you as we circle again and again. I keep saying I’m taking the next exit and you keep asking for one more mile, one more nauseous ride for old times sake, or for the months you carried me, and all of sudden a mile is a quarter of a lifetime and every box I pack has your name written across it.