Where Would I Go

“If I left you,” he said, “where would I go?”

“But you wouldn’t,” she said.

“Where would I go?”

“You wouldn’t,” she said.

“How about a cabin in the Everglades with stacks and stacks of rabbit boxes?”

“Alaska sounds nice, but long and dry somehow.”

“Or a boathouse on green water and everyday I wake up to the calls of birds and the squeak of deck shoes.”

“And food fished with our own hands. Eternal rain.”

“I remember mother’s dead feet. I remember how we prayed for her.”

“The walls were probably gray.”

“The caves were red in the torch light.”

“And the hills turned pink at sundown. Dinner late.”

“Someone forgot she was there,” he said.

“It happens,” she said.

“I could find that road that wants speed and cuts the land on either side and the wind in the rocks splits into rivers.”

“The wind without shoulders,” she said.

“Without you.”

“We could go together.”

“We could,” he said.

“But not really,” she said. “Not with me or you.”

Fifty years later they heard a door close. The sound of breaking chocolate. Thunder rumbling deep underground. But it was never the same.

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