The kitchen around it was demolished, rearranged. The refrigerator is now where we stopped to grab the tea kettle from its burner, but I cannot find a photograph that shows where they moved the stove or if there’s room anymore for the table where we ate with your parents the night I stopped being a vegetarian. I see the sink still in its location in front of the window I peer through out onto the evening, your father’s lawn tasteful and lush in memory’s soft light. Side by side, water running like time down the drain before us, we were near enough the same height that you didn’t have to bend when we finally turned and kissed after those years of your deployments and my plentiful boyfriends, after long nights rummaging separately in memory’s corridors. Our mouths still fit perfectly, that last kiss like a sanctuary, like a home, but also like the sad surprise of stumbling upon the listing for an address you thought you’d always have.