You said your earliest memory was the lullaby of water dripping from the ceiling. I asked how you survived in a cave. You said the cavern takes care of its own. I smiled, although I didn’t take you seriously, and asked where I might find one.

—

You said you were still quite young when you moved into a tree. I assumed you meant a playhouse in the branches. I told you I built one a couple of years ago, but I’m not sure it’s used much any longer. I asked if yours creaked on windy days. You said I was getting ahead of you and that you lived in the heartwood, finding nourishment in the sap. I hadn’t experienced much magic lately and was happy to play along. I asked if you resided next in a bird.

—

You said you relocated to a zoo and lived in the hunger of a tiger. When I asked if the zoo didn’t feed its animals, you said it wasn’t that kind of hunger.

—

You said one night a storm churned over the zoo, and you moved into the howl of the wind. It was how you learned to live in a voice. I said yours sounded like someone I was trying to forget. You were quiet for a moment. Then you said you moved around a lot, that you’d lived in the quickening before the lie, the spaces in waiting, the denial in wanting.

—

I asked if you wouldn't like to settle down. What I had to offer wasn’t much, but we could make it a home. When I felt something brush my hand, hope flared, and I sensed you living in the flame.

—

A month later, maybe more, I awoke with a chill and wondered if you’d moved on. I asked if you were living in the silence. When you didn’t reply, I realized you were leaving the answer to me.