SmokeLong Quarterly

The way the deer gathered at dusk. The way the kids lay still on the trampoline, counting stars. The way the tall, thin pines stood so close their roots touched. The crisp night snows of November.

The Have-A-Hart traps for field mice seeking shelter in our home. The wide, sweeping windows, facing the woods. The vines and robins our painter stenciled on the dining room walls. The rooster he painted onto the kitchen table. Eggshell blue cabinets, butcher block counters, hickory boards underfoot.

I can still hear the tapping of woodpeckers, the yelps of wild turkeys as they charged our fearless terrier. I remember the soft tiny bat who made her home on our windowsill. The howling coyotes, alerting their pack of a kill.

The way my throat closed when I turned onto our long country driveway. The lights had not been turned on. The way my heart pounded when I opened the garage door to the empty spot where his Honda should have been. The way the house let us know. It was dark and silent, save the answering machine, screaming out flashes of red.