Maybe we’ll get a spider plant. Or a fern. Or a rhododendron. (Which if I’m being honest I don’t know even really what that is it’s just fun to say.) I’ll try to not kill them. I’ll try to not overwater or underwater or whatever it is I do that seems to give me a savant-like ability to kill all plants in my vicinity. I’ll try. We won’t leave the dishes in the sink, I’ll try to remember to make the bed, there will be no dust on the ledges. Instead of staying up with the TV on I’ll let the sounds of the fountain outside lull me to sleep. Maybe we’ll start reading books next to each other in bed, the ones we always say we’ll get around to opening. Maybe Sundays will be the day we set aside for cleaning, or maybe we’ll just do the fifteen-minute shakedowns I’ve come to rely on to make my home seem more put together. We’ll walk to the market for salmon and flowers and pepper jelly. You’ll always remind me of when I spent $200 on lobster because I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing and even though I knew something was off I just went with it because I didn’t think to ask if “jumbo” was normal. I’ll hold your hand on the walk back. We’ll argue over who sits in the best spot on the couch—I will always win. We’ll find new places to become regulars. New places where they know you by name. Things will be good. Things will be quiet. Things will be warm and cozy and sweet and all of the things “home” should be. Maybe we’ll get a spider plant, or maybe we won’t. But we’ll build a home, a small home, a new home, on the corner of 2nd Avenue. And no matter the maybes, that home will be certain. That home will be there. That home will be some sort of ours.