Leaving My House for a Wooded Retreat

By Carol Barrett

I have told the cats who is coming. Seven deer lope through the backyard, one scratching his hind quarter with a hoof. The sprinklers have begun, greening the grass cut just last night at dusk. Dandelion fluff floats on a light breeze.

Inside, the cactus my mother nursed for fifty years. The cherrywood floor gleams in dark splendor, my table set with quilted mats, their print tumbling blackberries, peaches, melon. The pantry, laden with jars of plum jam, pear honey.

In the bedroom, trusty Singer beckons, spools of lime and raspberry thread, iridescent fabric for someone’s daughter. Bathroom mirror glints, catching the guest soap, stylized wings of a dragonfly. My desk, clear of lists. Bouquet of pencils.

Why am I leaving? Why not just tell the world I am away, gone as the night sky at noon.