Here’s a list of the easy stuff:She does the vacuuming,all year long,almost every other week for decades now. I empty the whole-house canister.Only fifteen times in ten years, but still a foul job. I clean the ovens, once a year.I hate the racks.They wreck my hands.More often than not, I clean the stove-top.I cook, she cleans up, but not the oven pan.During the first twenty five years, she cooked and I cleaned (the oven pan went with it).We're five years into the second twenty-five. We share big meal prep about fifty-fifty,you know, when we're having someone special over to eat.She does more …

Pocks When the bending turns to broken, the burning to burnt, the falling to fallen, when the ground is at a new low and your ear is on it, the landscape is at eye level, flat with only grains of sand and broken leaves, there are pocks,  little holes that catch the sun so that it turns in them all day long, lighting up the marks of deterioration where sediment has washed and scoured until little holes have developed in the little holes, and there it is again, the universe in almost nothing.