Don’t go.
Spool whines. Looks toward the cabin, then back at me.
I think about Ghost up the ridge. Another man in a cabin on a mountain. Scarred differently, but the cuts run deep. We don’t talk because talking means admitting why we’re up here. Ghost’s life is his business. I’ve never questioned it. I’m questioning mine.
The kitchen window dims. She’s moved away from it.
I’m not my father. He had a son to raise, a house to maintain, and grief he didn’t know what to do with.
I have a dog at my heel and a woman in my cabin who reorganized my shelves so the westerns get the afternoon light.
He had a reason. I have a rut.
Rosalind didn’t pick the lock and force her way into my cabin. She walked in and filled every room with vanilla, index cards, and quiet. She sat on my porch, hummed while she cooked, and reorganized my shelves.
She waited for me to open the door. I chose to.
The pass is almost cleared, and I’m standing in the rain at a woodpile, stuck to the spot.
Wind roars off the ridge and cuts through my soaked clothes. I shiver.
The cabin has the heat off the stove, and Rosalind is inside because I wouldn’t speak to her. That’s warmth I refuse.
The axe is in the mud at my feet. My hands are at my sides.
We stay put.
I’ve been telling myself my hands won’t close around the handle. That something is broken in me. It’s been broken for thirty-one years. My hands work fine.
I set the axe down and left it there.
This isn’t how it has to be.
Spool whines and presses into my thigh.
My knees give. I catch myself on the stump. The wood is slick, and my palm slides. I stay there, bent forward. Spool pushes harder into my leg, refusing to move.
He chose me when I had nothing. He’s choosing me now.
The door I locked from the inside has a knob on this side. I can’t let her go without trying.
As I push off the stump, my legs shake. I push myself upright, one hand still on the wood. Rain sluices down my back. My teeth chatter.
I have to go to Rosalind. Ask her to stay, even if I don’t know how.
I haven’t asked anyone for anything since I was nine years old. That was when I asked Dad where Mom had gone. He saidI do not knowin a way I’ve never forgotten.
Do I have the words?
I push off the stump and stride toward the cabin.
The cabin door opens. She’s down the steps and on the wet grass, walking toward me in the rain.
A part of me wants to wait. That’s who I used to be. No more. I’ll meet her halfway.
thirteen
. . .
