Too late for all that Andrew Bertaina
I take up quarters in a vacant colonial down by the water. The backyard has a small, stony path, and an abundant garden—petunias, Shasta daisies, yarrow, irises, a small grape vine with clusters of ripe purple Concords. The yard has no fence; it ends in a dusty path that snaked by the river. Mornings, I take walks down by the water, scaring blackbirds into flight and watching them fly across bits of pink and blue sky. I’ve been here a week, and I only know the dogs so far, who seek me out on the path and nuzzle my legs before they are pulled away by wellmeaning owners, who do not know how much I miss being touched. Sometimes, if I feel bold, I walk into the village where I am unknown. I watch the girls at market, hair like sheaves of wheat uncoiling in the wind, men spitting in the road and heaving large baskets from carts laden with apples. The talk is all of the crops and the vagaries of spring weather. Just this morning, I saw a farmer cut the head off a chicken, and I watched as it kept running, legs pumping furiously, futilely, and the dirt reddening around it. I spend a good deal of time reading by the fireplace in the sunken living room. I read Dickens or Henry James, turning pages in the deep quiet, getting up to add logs to the fire and watching sparks skitter or the blue flame burning intently like the eyes of a lover or a querulous cat. In the evenings, after a short walk, I take down the whiskey and start to drink. In the distance, I can sometimes hear the blare of the train’s horn as the train barrels through the night, taking people away from me. I confess that I love it here, out in the unknown. Though when it’s late and the candle has burned out, I hear you calling me from outside, and I’ll slip out of bed to find you. Outside, the moon is a buoy floating in the dark night sea. The river, like the path, slithers through the countryside, flickering in the moonlight. The odd thing about this house in the middle of nowhere, is that you’ve followed me here too. And from the window, I watch your body floating past, pale and serene. After you’ve passed round the bend in the river, I walk across the cold tile and into the bathroom. There, I light a candle and stare at my reflection in a small, gilded mirror—the reflection of a woman, half-gone from this world, but still clinging to life like a chicken out in the yard, running round and round, not knowing yet that it’s too late for all that.