The elephantine trumpet of the garbage truck brakes and diesel plume that followed.

The smell of skeleton grass, sun warmed strawberries and bits of dirt. The “chk, chk, chk” of the sprinkler cutting the spray across the garden.

The hiss and gurgle of a labored coffee machine. Java laced steam spirals upward.

The click of claws as a dog circles the kitchen island in search of scratches.

Darkened pages where ink stained fingers flipped through old passages. A demarcated middle between unsullied and personalized.

Ripe cavendish bananas and trivia facts. Paper on every surface. Books, newspapers, magazines, notes. Anything. Everything. Posters and art— cards filled with calligraphy— ink resides in this house like a reigning monarch.