they bolt across the road with a clatter of hooves and a flash of
white tails. They disappear into the pine forest on the other side.
After a moment, I step out into the road. The crunching sound of
my shoes against the asphalt is startlingly loud in the enormous
silence of earth and sky and trees. I reach the other side, flip open
the mailbox, pull out the stack of mail, and flip quickly through the
magazines and newspapers. I smile when I see an envelope with
my name written on the front in large, familiar handwriting.
“I got a letter,” I call across to Maude. She looks up from the beetle
she is inspecting and wags her tail, politely acknowledging the
sound of my voice. The unnecessary words echo up and down
the silent road for several seconds before fading away.
I slip the letter into my pocket, hurry back across the road, and
swing myself up onto the gate. I remain sitting there for a moment,
the stack of mail in my hand, watching as several turkeys emerge
from the trees. They chatter noisily to each other as they swagger
across the road, narrowly avoiding a dusty pickup truck that
appears out of nowhere. It races towards them and they scurry
quickly into the trees. The loud roar of the truck’s engine pulls me
from my daydream and I clamber down from the gate as it
rumbles by. When I reach the ground, Maude greets me as
joyfully as if we were apart for several hours instead of several
seconds.
I gather Maude’s leash in my hand and gaze at the initials in the
ground. My mind wanders once more to the children that once
stood where I am standing, lived where I am living, and played
where my own siblings and I now run and shout.
Where are they now? Do they remember this place?
I want to remember.