Mercury in Retrograde
Our world is running backward. Doors are falling off the kitchen cabinets and they can’t be fixed. The hardware is so old we can’t find replacements, and everything is exposed: the bottoms of the Tupperware sit on the shelf since their lids have disappeared; the avocado-colored crockpot is wrapped in its own frayed cord; and the box cheese grater is missing its handle. All on display in random acts of unkindness, because no one runs backward on purpose. Only when they are in crisis mode.

Fire
Twenty years ago, lightning struck the telephone pole on the corner. All our appliances were fried. We replaced the desktop computer, the refrigerator, the microwave, the television. The stove, we thought, was salvageable. Google said all it needed was a new heating element. We could do that, and we did. It worked for a while, but then the new heating element had to be replaced every year and the broiler never worked again. Some things aren’t worth saving, even when the relationship is problematic, but not bad. Lightning is bottled passion, and it can split you down the middle.

Earth
We have always had kitchen gardens right outside the back door. Sometimes vegetables. Sometimes flowers. Sometimes both, depending on the house, depending on the rental agreement and how much we were allowed to dig up the yard. We replaced the Scotch broom three times before we realized rabbits were nibbling it down to the nub. I concocted a solution to inhibit, but not hurt, them: igniting the faulty burner on the stove with a lighter; boiling garlic and red chili peppers to disintegration; straining out the solid bits and spraying it on the leaves each morning, after the dew dried. That worked. The rabbits left the Scotch broom alone, and it grew to three feet tall by the end of the summer. Did they dislike the taste or the smell? Did a whole family of rabbits perish because they didn’t have Scotch broom in their diet? We can only guess, sometimes, at the consequences for our actions. I miss my moon garden of white and silver plants that glow in the night. I keep dreaming about bringing it back.

Air
CPAP machines have come a long way. First you snored, and I ignored it. Then, the first machine wheezed for each inhale and exhale, a version of Darth Vader speaking his wickedness. Finally, a muted version where the air moves like spilt milk dripping onto the floor, or the new kitchen ventilator that prevents the smoke alarm from screaming. Quiet, but you know it’s working. When you face me in bed, I get the crush of your cold, re-circulated air, and all I can do is bury myself in covers. We had a dog who did that once, preferred to sleep under the blankets rather than on top of them, and I worried that she’d suffocate, that the air was somehow dead, but the dog slept fine and wagged her tail each morning. We could have a conversation about reconstituted air and if I’m breathing in your oxygen or CO2, or if I’m breathing air at all.

Water
I’m a fire sign, but I must be on the cusp of something else, because I am a water girl. I love the beach, baths, staring at the ocean, my bare feet in the river, and I drink filtered water from the refrigerator all day long. My imagination lives there, between the molecules, between the waves. Jellyfish, despite their many opportunities, never sting me, and although I should be afraid of sharks and the Portuguese man o’ war, I know how unlikely it is that we will meet face to face. Waves may crash the shore, but water is mostly silent unless you make it loud with splashing or splattering a water balloon on the sidewalk. I like the quiet, and most arguments are not worth the breath they need.

Twelve Houses
I have lived in eleven houses, most of them with you. We are grayer now, our kids adults who, despite their independence, know we are here to fall back on. Each house had its own quirks, its own karma. We are fixing and retrofitting house eleven to make it our last. We are at the beginning of the end: building a first floor laundry room, redesigning a kitchen so two people can cook, adding a ceiling fan in the bathroom that keeps out the moisture of my too long showers, and I am struck by how little we argue now, how you leaving your underwear on the bathroom floor or an empty cat food can on the counter are worth my extra step rather than the words. We keep hurt to ourselves, and there is peace in that silence, where Mercury in retrograde is not worth the backward glance.