Oh my love, remember the games we played. First, it was the wittier
phrase. Who had a greater schedule, the best ski jump. There was brawn,
and brain, in all that. The macro then became the micro: who did not put
the mustard in the fridge and who squeezed the toothpaste from the top.
Top, middle, let's get to the bottom! The bottom of everything matters,
except some fall and never hear that final drop. Hearings were important,
on like whether condiments needs to be refrigerated or not. And when
suitcases land home, thud, who carries? who un-packs? Who first packed
and carried? Idle questions as two weeks of laundry simmer and trinkets
sit in the passage where people walk by and complain (refrigerate after
opening: not on the side of French's yellow mustard.) The infamous
flip/flop - a flip of framed pictures each time I cleaned the room. A
balance of one family to the other, bi-partial, bi-weekly. Then oddly a flop,
each day after. To every turn there was a return. It was mysterious. It was
unidentified, stealth, denied. It was silent warfare. All internal affairs, until
the end. The end is when gamers blow their secret means and poker
players show their hand. Let's not forget the Christmas lights in April and
a birthday wish to take them down. A sixth request, sweetly made, much
like the first but never uttered before Valentines. In June the neighbors ask
and offers, it is considered. Six weeks before you left, six months too late.

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Catherine Moore is a freelance writer and editor. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Tampa, after a prior career in public relations. Catherine is an avid traveler and has visited fourteen different countries, including living overseas as a young child. Some of Catherine's publications include short stories and poems in Six Little Things, MaMaZina Magazine, Ars Medica journal, the Avatar Review, and Grey Sparrow.