The winter days were the hardest, short and barren. Every time she woke up, it was darker. Every time the walls were just a little bit closer together. In November she scattered her clothes all over the place, and the ghost of her mother whispered in her ear.
“don’t just leave it there pick it up can’t you be tidy?”
There was a melody to it.
By January the piles had been pushed up against her bed so tightly that she walked on them getting to the door, springy as new grass underfoot. February, they disappeared, swallowed into the space underneath the bed. Lying in bed, she put one hand on each wall and a foot on the ceiling. It was so hard to stay awake.
“oh susan i’m sorry we never got along i tried honestly i tried”
Still a melody.
March the room disappeared and her with it. The next tenants marveled at how light and open the apartment was, how high the ceilings were, how much of the spring came in through the open windows and made the curtains waver.