Autumn with its tender shedding, the staccato voices of children in the street. Unfinished puzzle pieces left out on a coffee table waiting to be joined, the patio screen door held open by a rusted silver washer. We drank mint iced tea outside with our bare feet brushing against the bogor moss and talked about people from church who felt more like family than friends.

Did I forget to list the chianti in the ingredients? You should’ve been drinking this whole time. Until your lips are stained and your face sets into a permanently dour pucker and your head pounds. It’s the tannins. They add a complexity to the sauce that is hard to name, but essential for depth of flavor.

Every space you walk into is haunted. Everything has a memory. A song. A person. An experience. It might not belong to you, but the space has lived just the same. It’s all there, all the time. We don’t always see it.