Trains don't whistle, they moan. We heard one as we waltzed in the kitchen. One-two-three, one-two-three. Then the radio informed us: with the economy failing, indigent burials were on the rise.
"What might an indigent burial be?" you asked.
"It might be tough sledding."
You claimed déjà vu. You'd experienced it all before—the word burial, the train's moan, the waltzing, your arm on a man's back—one-two-three, one-two-three-and then, on the underside of both our smells, a vision of coffin walls textured like sandpaper.
You stopped waltzing and said, "I'm going to fall over with this déjà vu."
"But what does it mean? That you've died before, that we've danced before? That there's not much time left?"
We sat on the floor. You leaned your head on my shoulder and it fell into my hands. It was a gift. I opened it, layer by layer of red paper, then a box, gold tissue, white tissue, another box. It held a kitchen, two waltzing figures, the moan of a train and a radio the size of a blink of an eye. It whispered the news of the day:
Indigent burials were on the rise.