Orange door frames and oil stains you slipped on and forgot. Mummified remains somewhere in a cave I’ll never see. The grease dripping off the burritos we shared. All the snow days, and all the slow ways I learned to say “I love you” behind my teeth. Yesterdays pile up like a pumpkin patch still clinging to my shirt, still weighing me down to autumn and autumn and autumn, while winter sits in the sun room upstairs, and I wait for you to answer the door.