When I walk in the back door past the refrigerator and into the kitchen you are sitting there in a ribbed undershirt and gray work pants. Your day is done but you are not tired. I bring you all my treasures in a cigar box — the perfect cat’s-eye marble, blue sea glass, broken tile from the old neighbor’s demolished house, matches from some thin-walled motel in a faraway state. I have placed these in a box for you to discover, to examine each one and see why I love the distance, the light, the strange beauty of transformation that these objects hold. Where have you been? you would ask. In hiding places in the green dreams of backyards, in the melancholy world behind garages, where secrets are told and children cry. You would examine every piece with reverence and tell a story about each one, making us laugh and be full of pity for each small life, for the sidewalk outside our house, for the maps inside the glove compartment, for the acorns that litter the yard, fallen from the world’s largest oak, which pushes through our driveway, for the neighbors’ restless child hoping for sleep. We watch the night come on as we sit at the table, the fireflies’ yellow signals flickering on and off in the backyard like distant lanterns from another kingdom.