I’m alone when I come upon it stuffed into the recesses of a secret place, and yet not completely hidden, as if needing to be discovered. So, I think, so this is where he has kept it, admiring how it leans into the camouflage of an honest thing, a memory forming — lawn in all directions, shot glasses, a tinkle of wind chimes in the shade. Standing here, holding it, clever words trapped against my skin, I feel its unease in the open room, the brightness it has been lifted into. There will be no putting it back, no pretending to be still blinded by its concealment. Entering it now, absorbing its old news, examining the underpinnings, the perfect surface still wears the smoothness of a lake in morning air. I leave it in plain view, imagining his surprise.