My hands couldn’t get free of the postcards, but they wanted
the chairs—the fine scrolling, the intricate caning, the centuries
of rest and waiting. I could feel my prints against the dark-wood
patina, the velvet of meals and meditations. I needed to take only

three steps to turn the price tag. I needed only a few seconds
to assess my ability to usher them into my U-Haul, to make
them the places I wondered or dozed. But I was frozen by a fifties
illustration of a castle. Feet away fancy people were touching

the arms, the back. I needed them to slip out of the way. I needed
to put the card back and take my stained t-shirt and jeans through
the portico. I took a breath and a step. My palms could already taste
the older oils. I took a step and a breath. This is what it is to be

alive in the land of the dead: your own breath, your own
steps moving with purpose toward someone else’s place to rest.