In The Fall

The day begins like spring, all thawing ground and birdsong in sunlight. We make snowmen out of the last white patches, but by lunch there is none left to be had. It is divine. We drive out to the lighthouse in the river and remark how bleak the winter, still. A storm lurks on the horizon. 

Last night when I went out for a smoke I heard the coyotes howling in the mountains; tonight all there is is wind, but it howls all the same. We stare out the kitchen window and try to conjure up ghosts in the dark, but they need no encouragement. They come out all on their own and follow me to bed, wring the breath right out of me. I stare into the bathroom mirror and say enough, but the old house whispers that I haven't seen the last of this heartache yet. It will run up and down the west side highway until I am a pale comparison of already unsteady grounds. I go losing out of this battle, year after year. This will all end in tears, and I am not yet ready to make it any other way. 

A screen door slams downstairs. The ghosts make themselves at home. They have your face. I don't want them to leave.