I remember.
I remember every window, every door, every creaky floor panel. I remember the dripping of the rain, our constant, faithful companion, slicking down windows and plants until it seemed as though water and earth had combined to make some new element, drumming away, announcing its presence to the world. It was light and dark all at once, muting colors, melding them together; grays, blues, slate.

I remember the house, its edges fading into the countryside as if the land were claiming it for its own.
The land, the house, the house, the land; like an old habit too much instinct to break. Boundaries blurred through the centuries. We fit that house, made it home, letting it soak into our very being, like rain falling on the myrtle. We were the house and the land, so used to each other that one would felt lost without the other.

I remember a piano.
A pot that once held a tulip, long dead, leaving its counterpart empty to occupy that small space on that piano. I always meant to put a new flower in that pot. When the rain would make gardening impossible, a mournful little tune would be born from the keys and hammers and strings, thoughtfully winding its way through the house, dissolving into the dusty pitter patter of slate and gray and blue and land and house.

I remember loving you. I remember our bed with the quilt askew. I remember moving with you in the darkness, in the daylight, memorizing the smell, the taste, the feel of you.

I remember it. But you became habit. Habit like the song, habit like the house, habit like the land, like the myrtle and the rain, the pot never filled. I don't know where I begin, where the house, the land, you, end; bleeding together like a watercolor left out in the rain, our constant companion.