Listen to the foghorn open the water's crinkly envelope: such a deeply plaintive voice that nothing wants to answer. The sky darkens but withholds the rain. There are times when, inside myself, I am lonely again though I don't want to be. Years ago, late at night, I looked out of my window to see you making your way through powdery snow. Has it been that many years? In our home, we even have two or more of some things— flashlights, coffee pots, tape measures. Once a day, the rice cooker whistles softly then pings when it's done. We put tables and shelves together; there are so many books—it will take more than one lifetime to walk through all the countries in them. But if I go alone, I will be lonely inside myself again. Sometimes the quiet is bearable, but never for long.