Time passes, life snowballs, gathering debris and dirt, eventually smashing into a tree and shattering. There’s a chance to start again but it won’t be much like its old self. The pieces fall to be gathered by other snowballing lives…

“What’s with all the furniture?”
“It’s for you.”
He climbed out of the truck, slammed the door halfway down.
“But… it’s yours.”
“I’m giving it away. I’ve got too much. Besides, weren’t you the one saying you needed some couches for the rec area in the basement?”
I didn’t remember saying that, but it was true.
He was mumbling.
“Coffee table, couple couches, a recliner, and three barstools. Work for you?”
“Yeah, it’s great, thanks. What happened to your-”
“Don’t worry about my whatever. Just getting rid of some baggage.”
Whatever that meant.
We spent the next hour hauling the furniture down to the basement. There was more than he’d mentioned, maybe too much.
“You’re getting kind of full in here.”
“Yeah.”
“You think Tommy will want some?”
“Why not?”
He smiled, flexed. He seemed chipper, happier than usual.
“I’ll just haul this over to him then.”
“Hey, I can come along, give you a hand-”
He waved me off.
“Don’t worry about it. Get that stuff settled, have a beer, and order that pool table already.”
(But the pool table was downstairs, he’d already seen it.)
“Uh, right. Sure. Thanks again.”
He slammed the door, cranked the engine.
“Don’t forget, Thursdays we’re on.”
He looked slightly confused for a moment, then- was it condescension?- a grim smile.
“Of course.”

So not all was perfectly normal, but it was well. Jane was probably just feeling cluttered, which was to be expected with the years past and the kids out of the house. What’s the point in being prepared to seat and entertain exactly no one? Yet another example of life imitating art.

Two days, three hours, and twenty-three minutes later, it became clear.
Just getting rid of some baggage…
Finish the sentence.

He wanted a small degree of consistency, he already had a name. The yard was overgrown to begin with, but she hadn’t touched it since… ever. He couldn’t take it with him, not the trees or the birds or the time spent in the gutter or basement. Twenty-seven years gone to a pillar of salt.
Silence.
Life is in the box. I must think outside of it.
From one illusion to another, one box to a smaller one. The pieces shatter, lives snowballing closely behind take up the particles, the dirt and debris, take them in close as a part of themselves, completely integrated.
They now are faced with a CHOICE.