Letters from the Cabin

Winter came early. Your coat hangs on the peg by the door, wet-stone wool. One button sewn with thread that does not match, because you did it in the dark and would not wait for light.

I stand near it. The wool keeps the cold an hour after you take it off, and the village with it, and the herb you brush against coming home. You think I stand there to be close to you. I stand there because it is the only part of your day I can touch.

Twice in sixty years I reached the gate. Both times I turned back at the bend. A man with no breath in the cold is a story. Stories get women with baskets asked questions.

So this is what I have instead. I close your lining seams while you sleep. The left one, in September. You have not noticed. I hope you never do. When the wind gets under the door I move your coat a peg higher, out of the draft. You will think you did that. Good.

Every morning you put it on, I decide again to let you walk out that door. Not generosity. The only trade I have: you in the world, me at the window, counting hours until the wool comes home.

Bring the cold back. I will take it off your shoulders at the door and hang it where I can reach it. That is my evening.

— L.

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No. 9 of the weekly letters. If there is something you cannot say to someone's face, I write it for you: [email protected]. First lines free.