What Wasn't

by Sara Backer

Do you remember
the morning November
smelled of wet lumber

and eucalyptus leaves?
Inside, we drank water
and listened to Satie.

You painted paper
white narcissus
with a putty knife.

I folded paper into white
cranes, wings akimbo.
The sky turned indigo.

I discovered
we also do
what we don't do.

My memory holds
echoes of bronze bells
that were empty bowls.

Appeared in The Mayo Review.