I Dare You

Dorianne Laux

It’s autumn, and we’re getting rid of books, getting ready to retire, to move some place smaller, more manageable. We’re living in reverse, age-proofing the new house, nothing on the floors to trip over, no hindrances to the slowed mechanisms of our bodies, a small table for two. Our world is shrinking, our closets mostly empty, gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes, the bells and whistles. Now, when someone comes to visit and admires our complete works of Shakespeare, the hawk feather in the open dictionary, the iron angel on a shelf, we say take them. This is the most important time of all, the age of divestment, knowing what we leave behind is like the fragrance of blossoming trees that grows stronger after you’ve passed them, breathing them in for a moment before breathing them out. An ordinary Tuesday when one of you says I dare you, and the other one just laughs.