What do you wish you could bring back?
idk, I have what I wanted and I let go of what I didn’t.
Our dog, K. I would have liked more time with her. The land, the river. Years ago, when the riverhouse was empty and for sale, I stopped by and walked the yard, past the little house, down to the river. I ran into ghosts with every step.
Quiet time at the river’s edge, just geese honking, ducks dabbling, frogs jumping, robins singing — that’s what I would bring back and that’s why I go to the lakeshore and walk along the creek, why I close my eyes outside to listen to chittering squirrels and cawing crows.
There’s nothing at either of my parents’ current houses that I want. I took my stuff years ago.
I fantasize about tossing a lit match into the farmhouse, walking away and watching it burn to the ground, all smoke and fire and ash.
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We stand outside the farmhouse, Dad and his wife are gone, wherever they’ve gone to. We retrieve the leather-bound books, a few pictures. Nothing else. Everything inside, even the air, is musty and sour, used up. The clothing is dry, the couch cushions are flattened, the dishes have a sheen of grime.
The towels are tattered, bedsheets are threadbare. A layer of dust has settled over every surface. All tinder now. Dry. Parched.
I strike the match ablaze, touch it to the ragged carpet, then toss the flame into the curtain. The fire starts slowly then catches and spreads. We walk out the door, the door I walked in and out of during my teenage years. I don’t bother to close the door now, letting the air rush in to feed the growing fire.
We dampened the surrounding trees and created a moat-like ring of water which we stand beyond. We stand in the field listening to the crackling inferno.
We stand.
We watch.
We smile through tears.
