My father comes late that night. My mother doesn't leave a note or a meal
behind. She is simply gone. He's furious.

Forget her, he says, she's never setting foot in this house again.
But Friday
is a white chalk circle I draw in the dirt.
Inside this circle, everything
is safe and clear.

Every week has its Friday.
Friday comes and I can't stay inside.
The entire day rings with anticipation and nervousness.

Hanna was younger than I am now, only thirty-two. Still, I wake up on Fridays
much earlier, as if I am in love; I must prepare. I am a forty-seven year
old man, looking for a thirty-two year old giantess across the vast expanse
of thirty years. Certain longings are absurd, I know. I see her in a crowd
trying to get away, always at the farthest edge. I see the back of her head
again and again, turning towards and away, disappearing.
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