The Wolves Behind Your Uncle's House
I.
The pond behind your uncle’s house froze over every winter. In a recurring dream from your childhood you are digging down under the snow, under the ice, and beneath that thick layer there are fruit tress growing and wolves sleeping beneath them. Their teeth are sharp and their eyes are hungry, but they are friendly. You somehow thought this dream was true, and whenever you and your older sisters would go to play on that ice, you would always press your face down to the cold, to see if you could hear them snoring through their winter sleep. You, for reasons you cannot explain, still do this every winter.
II.
You told me this story after sex one evening - and acted it out by pressing your face into my bare chest. We were spending the weekend at your parents’ house, and throughout dinner your father kept giving me that I know what you’re doing to my daughter look. He always looked like he was ten feet tall, his arms twin tree trunks that didn’t swing when he walked.
III.
At Andrea’s dinner party I drank too much wine and at the bottom of the stairs I asked you if you remembered the wolves and you told me to stop making such a production out of the emptiness between us. After you walked away I punched a dent into the wall and pretended I didn’t know anything about it when Andrea brought up later that night.
IV.
My mother reads your uncle’s obituary to me over the phone. Sometime in summer he drank a bottle of whiskey, filled his pockets with rocks, and laid himself down in the pond. His body was at the bottom, belly bloated, a note taped to his screen door explained the things he could no longer reconcile with. I consider calling you, but no longer have your number.
V.
In November my mother asks me to chop up the quince tree in our backyard and burn the branches. There’s a dusting of snow on the ground and the branches feel cold, even through my gloves, as I gather them up and drop them into the iron cast fire pit. I cover the branches with lighter fluid and I pause for a moment, I turn my face west and I listen. I am not sure what I am listening for, but I know it’s something.
VI.
It is cold in my apartment, and in my room, and I wonder if it’s cold in yours too. On the back of a napkin in my kitchen I attempt to draw a map of Maine, and along the coast I sketch your face, as thought the entire state dipped down like hair covering your left eye. There’s nothing to be afraid, it’s nearly winter, and the wolves are sleeping.
The pond behind your uncle’s house froze over every winter. In a recurring dream from your childhood you are digging down under the snow, under the ice, and beneath that thick layer there are fruit tress growing and wolves sleeping beneath them. Their teeth are sharp and their eyes are hungry, but they are friendly. You somehow thought this dream was true, and whenever you and your older sisters would go to play on that ice, you would always press your face down to the cold, to see if you could hear them snoring through their winter sleep. You, for reasons you cannot explain, still do this every winter.
II.
You told me this story after sex one evening - and acted it out by pressing your face into my bare chest. We were spending the weekend at your parents’ house, and throughout dinner your father kept giving me that I know what you’re doing to my daughter look. He always looked like he was ten feet tall, his arms twin tree trunks that didn’t swing when he walked.
III.
At Andrea’s dinner party I drank too much wine and at the bottom of the stairs I asked you if you remembered the wolves and you told me to stop making such a production out of the emptiness between us. After you walked away I punched a dent into the wall and pretended I didn’t know anything about it when Andrea brought up later that night.
IV.
My mother reads your uncle’s obituary to me over the phone. Sometime in summer he drank a bottle of whiskey, filled his pockets with rocks, and laid himself down in the pond. His body was at the bottom, belly bloated, a note taped to his screen door explained the things he could no longer reconcile with. I consider calling you, but no longer have your number.
V.
In November my mother asks me to chop up the quince tree in our backyard and burn the branches. There’s a dusting of snow on the ground and the branches feel cold, even through my gloves, as I gather them up and drop them into the iron cast fire pit. I cover the branches with lighter fluid and I pause for a moment, I turn my face west and I listen. I am not sure what I am listening for, but I know it’s something.
VI.
It is cold in my apartment, and in my room, and I wonder if it’s cold in yours too. On the back of a napkin in my kitchen I attempt to draw a map of Maine, and along the coast I sketch your face, as thought the entire state dipped down like hair covering your left eye. There’s nothing to be afraid, it’s nearly winter, and the wolves are sleeping.