French Hay

I went looking for the road to our house, but the road had moved, or at least been broken into bits, with each bit set at a different angle. I could not follow it. It was the road that turned east at Yellow Tavern and went up through the Slashes, past the river and the winding creeks, the family plots sinking into the marsh. Sometimes small bones would wash out onto the banks, but we left them there. They were our father’s father’s bones, we thought, or maybe Indians.

I do not know why I left the house. I had a cough, I remember. I was in the kitchen, hiding from my sister. It was November and I remember coughing. Then I was outside looking for the road, only it was summer and the thistles were sweeping up around my legs as I tried to move forward.

The house faced south – we could look across the valley for miles. But it was not there, only traces of the driveway, I thought. Did it burn? Was my family somewhere waiting for me?

The sun was setting and the shadows were so long; I could not see much distance ahead with the low sun in my eyes. I turned my ankle in the marsh but kept walking. I had nowhere else to go. I passed an old wooden fence and came to another brook – Stony Run? I climbed down the bank to try to get my bearing -- I have played here so many times – and saw a bone glistening in the shallows. This must be home.