A garage we called garaggio, ten-by-twenty-two, with a peaked roof. You painted the plywood floor sky blue with a long-handled roller from Land’s End True Value. With the ceiling fan, a mild breeze always blew, though when the tide was in, the wind would do. For my desks, two flush doors you painted white, on wrought-iron stands, solid, true. Homasote walls you painted white, too, and seven small windows all new that opened and closed. I hung bamboo shades to block the bay view (distracting for me as it was for you—its marine clichés, its colorful hullabaloos.) Then I push- pinned my old poster of Van Gogh’s room at Arles, butter yellow, poppy red, cool blues, and a photo of Elvis the Jew— not really a Jew but a shabbos goy who, Saturdays, as a nice Memphis boy lit gas pilots for his frum neighbors, and opened their flues (when he died the rebbetzin broke down and wept—it’s true!) Three flea market lamps; one bookcase from Staples, brand new, Assembly Required asked too much first of me, then of you. When we stood it up, its sides were firm- ly askew. Without much to-do I wrote three books. If we had regrets, they were very few. Now I know we were the paper, we were the glue. I’m still at my desks, it’s all I can do by our little dream house at dusk when the bay turns lavender, without you.