all the things I'll never need to know again

You invited me into your tiny house and taught me its secrets:
The water pump needs to be on to flush the toilet
One shower fills 4-5 liters of the 12 liter water tank
Grey vs black (dark) waste
Biodegradable soap
Two gas tanks
Organizing and reorganizing your things in the small storage spaces
Where the condoms were, and the toothpaste
The cooler that kept things cool for one day, that you’re replacing soon with a fridge
The electric system with solar panels and batteries
The wifi (you got for free from AT&T (or was it Verizon) for filling out a survey, the signal booster
Your new cup holder
How to properly mount your phone stand so it wouldn't tilt down
The curtains, velcroed while driving, enclosing the space when parked
The living room sofa bed, the blankets stored in your plastic sealable bag
The way your instruments stacked in the corner - your keyboard and handpan
The trash can which floated around in various locations
The migration of the dishes from bottom to middle shelf
The dry goods, the vegetables, the olive oil which kept leaking
The shower curtains matching the rest of the house – black lines on linen cloth
How to sync my phone with your car speakers (until it stopped working)
The boxy shape of the 1990 Ford and the van's evolution
Airstream and other kinds of sleeper cabins
How to spot sprinter vans on the road, and their average cost
Where you hide your dollar bills, and important documents
the Rumi book you read on Wednesdays

I think you were trying to imagine a future with me too
You wrote me into your script and gave me a home with you for these 3 months
I taught you how to swivel the passenger chair without opening the door

I learned your house in my body
the heat of the furnace on my lower back
the weight and heft of converting the sofa into a bed
the firm coziness of your pillow
the joy of your hands touching me (although that’s another poem)
The smooth wooden shelves
the snap of the magnet keeping the shelves closed (brilliant idea, honey)
I was just getting used to your furnace and forgot to turn it off (I’m sorry, I should have said it then)

I watched your camper van evolve from that first road trip (which made me carsick and hesitant to ever get back into the van with you) to now,
Admiring your persistence and problem-solving
Proud to be in the car with you, committed to taking better care

On the last night we were together, I vowed to see the car as my own home
And I did. I thought we’d be building this home together.