I hate the fact that by the time I finish upstairs and check all the switches and the light at the bottom of the hallway, by the time I make the bulb downstairs look half dark and half white to match the darkness when the door is being closed to match the white paint in the closet, to match the color of my skin and her skin, by the time I check the Glad Trash bag I wouldn't throw away because it had a card from a Video Store that someone might steal and use to rake up a huge bill in my name, by the time I make sure that the Glad Bags in another closet downstairs won't fall on the cable TV and telephone lines, both of which aren't connected, by the time I move all the boxes and chairs away from the electrical plug-ins so that nothing will fall into the sockets, by time I check for about five minutes to make sure the back door is locked, and check that the thermostat's switch is centered where it should be and isn't on, by the time I run my fingers under the sink in the kitchen and check the stove at least ten times which is closest to the door, I have to go back up there, check all three rooms on the top floor again.

Then, after this, when I finally get downstairs, and tell myself I'm not going up there any more, just can't, I realize I have forgotten to check the shower to see if it is running, to run my hand under it, and to check also the stool which could overflow and flood the whole apartment, ruin everything, and I would be sued, not even know it until I got back into town since the apartment complex people didn't even have my parent's number. I have to check, too, to make sure the medicine cabinet in the restroom is securely placed in the wall where it belongs, and won't fall on the sink to turn the knob on, or fall on the light switch and the fan switch. The fan is in bad shape, and lights up with fire in the circle on the ceiling. This will cause a fire, for sure.

I remember how I used to stand at the bottom of the stairs hearing wind blow Glad trash bags she had taped to the windows so that cold air wouldn't get in her room. Now no bags, I have taken them down. No currents. No wind. And no voice.

Downstairs, again, I'm thinking that the cabinets might fall on the stove and cause a fire. I have no idea how many houses burn down this way. There probably aren't any statistics. The kitchen cabinets used to swim in my mother's house sometimes up to ten feet right in front of my face when I was on LSD.

Forty minutes later, I leave my apartment. She wasn't there to help or stop me. For the most part, she had understood the rituals, had a few herself, but she always knew when enough was enough when we were leaving for somewhere far away, and would yell at me over and over until I finally shut the apartment door and got in the car. Now there was nothing but two floors of emptiness, and it seemed to take forever.