The tiny cottage in the woods is abandoneduntil the woman whose husband drinkstakes refuge thereafter a bender,without regret.The woman loves her husband,and this is how she continues to love him.Fleeing.
When the gin comes outshe heads to the place with the skeletons of miceswept into the corners.The freshly dead smell of brassicasbefore the molasses of rot sets in.
The woman will linger here for hours.She may bring a blanketor bread, a flashlight, a book.She may stay the night.
She’ll watch as freight trains passbeyond the tall pines.Flashing boxcar painted jewels,covered in cipher,“Corn Products” bringing up the rear.
A boy died in this cottagethirty years agoafter getting lost in freak snowstorm.His mother, who remembers little else,still curses the empty cupboardsof this place.
A gunman hid outafter killing a couplefor the forty dollars in their wallet.Now he mops floors at Dixonand once saw the Virgin Maryin a watermelon,which changed him.
The woman knows none of this.If she did she might stay away,but on this night she falls asleepas bats stir in the eaves.
She’ll walk back gingerly in the morningreturning to the kind and clear-headed manshe believes herself to love,who will be fixing a leaky faucethe’s been meaning to get to for months.
***
Photo by Michael Henry on Unsplash