January 1, 2003
The car is crammed. The computer, skis and clothes are unquestionably hers. Then there’s the division of dishes, a gentle haggle of sentimental knickknacks, a compromise of artwork, a generosity of tools, a confident assertion of books. How do you halve a household? Half is a loose concept shaped by practicality, guilt and an eagerness to be donewithit. Some things are indivisible by default: a house, a gazebo, a garden, a dream. The trees she/they planted. The rock wall she/they built. On a blue-sky late-spring morning, she drives off beneath circling hawks, prepared to give up everything but her self.