By Gail Peck

This new place on the second floor I call my tree house. I can’t get used to saying apartment. There are trees all around and a twenty-five-foot balcony. Still, I miss the private backyard we had, especially the Japanese Maples we planted and could see from the sunroom. I think less and less about the house, but still won’t go down that street called King Owen.

Blue is what I chose as the basic color for decorating my tree house. My chair is blue, the sofa and pillows are blue. This is a “great room” concept. I can see the kitchen, the dining room, my desk, and much else. When I’m in the kitchen and people are here, I can be a part of what’s going on.

I’ve learned everyone’s name in these past few months. One man I call Mr. Red because one day I saw him dressed entirely in red, right down to his tennis shoes. I think he’s had a stroke, as he always keeps one arm against his left side. He walks slowly three times a day to the main dining room. This journey seems to me to take up most of his day. I can look down to the first floor where he lives and each morning, no matter how early, his light is on.

The proximity of the people who live in these eighteen units keeps us interested in one another. Regina escaped from East Berlin just before the Wall was built. (My stepfather was stationed there in the army, and we left just as the Wall was going up.) Joe addresses all we’ve found wrong in this new building and Betsy has become our party planner. On Valentine’s Day, I found a bag of coconut macaroons at my door.

Days gone—that’s why we are all here preparing for a short future. Many have lost spouses who now exist only in memories and photographs.

Mornings are my favorite time—coffee, writing in my journal, the quiet before the day begins. Here, too, I hear the train whistle, a forlorn sound of my childhood. I remember rushing out the door to wave to the conductor.

As an army brat, I should have known you can’t truly replace loss. You say goodbye to friends, take a few of your most valuable possessions, and leave in a car. You follow the road to where it turns from the house you’ve known. A new place awaits, but it takes time to feel like home. The days pass until one day you realize you have “settled in,” as they say.

In the evenings, as always, I drink wine and talk to my husband before dinner. We want whatever recent sorrow to recede. There have been many sorrows in our fifty-two years of marriage, but also good times unmeasurable. Through it all I held my glass of deep burgundy wine, thankful I have someone to talk to, someone I have loved for a long time.

Peck is the author of eight books of poetry. Poems and essays have appeared in Southern Review, Nimrod, Greensboro Review, Brevity, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for a Pushcart and for Best of the Net. Her essay, “Child, Waiting,” was cited as notable by Best American Essays.