Rose’s House

After she has gone the sun flits behind the clouds; the shadows change like a player’s hands running down the keys. A tan walkway leads from the shaded recess by the door to the purple driveway. On the flank of the house, in the shadow cast by its height, the gray box of the air conditioner waits to be turned on. The windows ascend the cream tile siding. At the base of the tree a stone figure crouches. It seems to peer outward.

One of Rose’s survivors pulls into the driveway in a maroon car. He waits inside the cabin a minute then slowly opens the door. He walks into the house, emptying of its belongings. The train cries, a drill from another house spins with its bit in the socket, cool wind flows out of the late summer air. They hit the side of the house and travel up the chimney. The chimney stack rises above the pine trees.

The wind in their branches, they sway through blue and green. Hisses out of the needles. A few thoughts drift in the wind, a gust sweeps over Rose’s house. Her name in the wind, she buffets all the soffits of her home. And the grass and the warping sunlight. And the shadows netting yellow leaves. And the flag drooping in our peripheral vision. And the glowing hot air rising from the cement. The crushed bits of stone Rose used to gambol over. But no more. In air. In air. Drifted away.

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