Outside, the first firefly of summer blinks on and off, on and off, like a tiny, stubborn heart. And you think, for the first time, that stay might not be a place. Maybe it’s just a promise you carry with you, folded in your pocket, for as long as you need it.
You fold it into a tight square. Put it in your back pocket. Stay -2005-
Then: never.
You stand there until the streetlights hum on. Outside, the first firefly of summer blinks on
“Yeah. That’s the point.” He kicks a loose pebble. It skitters under the U-Haul. “No memories there.” on and off