Jan/Feb 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 1 Nonfiction |

Yalta

Tell me this: Do you think that in the years since you died my life has continued as before? Do you think that I still walk through our rooms, that my clothes hang in the closets, our pictures crowd the walls, the bookcases are crammed full, all our belongings remain in place? Do you imagine that when evening comes I light the lamps and our friends gather? No, none of that. I'm not there anymore. Almost everything is gone—sold or given away. When I closed the front door for the last time the rooms were empty, the shelves and walls were bare, not a clue to our life remained. Strangers live there now. They watch the sunset over the Hudson through our windows, they invite their friends to make merry, they think our apartment belongs to them. Do you want to know where I live now? In two rooms that would fit into our old dining room. Don't worry, you haven't left me in penury. I have a terrace, I have the sky all around, I look at Central Park, I see a pond, I see across to Fifth

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Tell me this: Do you think that in the years since you died my life has continued as before? Do you think that I still walk through our rooms, that […]

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