My house is a collection of memories. Pieces of furniture unmatched, uncoordinated used to each other after three decades together sit side by side in uneasy but accustomed companionship. If my parents were still living together that is how I imagine their life together would be. It is early in the morning, I am jet-lagged. The sun should rise soon, there is comfort in certainties. In a few days we sell this apartment that I owned with my ex-husband. Tom and I have bought a home across the road. I look forward to cleaning this apartment of the memories sleeping in the sofas and tables. I will lay them on the side of the road and hope someone will pick them up and use them. The time now is 4:30 am.