er arrived. I told her I’d make mother leave, but Tera said it wasn’t just mother. I understood, there was too much smoke in that little house. What I didn’t understand was why Tera only left me a letter. I opened the tan curtains, one hand on either side, like a grand show. A deep relaxing breath to start the day, except when I looked down her car was gone. And a cream-colored envelope had been slid under the thick oak door of my room. A rectangle of heavy linen paper with an apology… and a request. “Please, don’t try to contact me. I care about you, but I think we both have some growing up to do.” Tera didn’t tell me where she was going, she told me not to bother to ask. On that tiny piece of parchment, she said goodbye. I called her, knowing she wouldn’t answer. I called her every morning for six months. Six months I spent in shame and guilt, waiting for Tera. I looked from the little silver car to the house’s thick log cabin walls, and tiny hand-built garden… I looked at the shiny green grass and bountiful orange trees in the front yard… I looked at the black shingles, sparkling as the sun peeked through the thick clouds, like all of heaven shining down on that one small house. And then I looked down at the layer of blind and curtain turning the windows black… and I walked away. Because Tera was right to leave, even though it still hurt me, and I could feel it like a thick ball of mud in my chest. I should have left when she did, when you could still see light coming from those little cedar framed windows.
74
