On the first of October, 2023,

rays lingered between the beige blinds.

I lifted my head off the navy pillow.

I perked my ears, narrowed one eye, and sniffed,

but no coffeemaker percolated ground beans.

No TV played the news downstairs.

I reached over to Amelia’s side of the bed

and glided my hand over the cold, undisturbed comforter.

It was a Saturday, but we still got up at the same time.

Today, we needed to chop pinewood to toss

into the fireplace for the forecasted cold spell

heading our way. But for me, it was already here.

It’s cold between us—it has been for some time now.

I twisted, pushed my feet into brown slippers, and stood upright.

I grabbed a white T-shirt from the mahogany dresser

and threw it over my shoulders.

She must have done it this time, I thought. Done what she said she would do—leave—for good this time.

I moved to the stairs, gripped the oak rail,

and descended onto the cream carpet.

Each step echoed over the deafening silence.

I turned my head and moved my eyes around

for a sign of life. I squinted.

Amelia left a note on the glass coffee table.

She moved a pen over a napkin.

I lifted the note and sat on the large,

dark leather sectional.

The note said: We love each other, but don’t show it. I’m not sure what I want right now. You. Someone else. Or occasional sex with other men. I tilted my head and tightened my lips. If I figure out what I want is you, I’ll return by next October.

My hands shook like a leaf in a light breeze.

I set the note on the coffee table and returned to the couch.

I ran my fingers through my thick, dark hair.

I stopped smoking, but what the fuck.

I grabbed a cigarette from the kitchen table.

I went to light it, but I couldn’t go through the steps

of stopping the addiction again.

Right now, I have one addiction,

but she didn’t see herself the way that I did.

I closed my eyes and accepted my feelings

that bumped into each other, seeing them

not for who I was, or even for who they were,

but for what they were—not a part of me—detached

from the present. Sorrow is here,

but it doesn’t define the better angels within me.

My eyes released fears and dampened

my cheeks, which happened for weeks.

I put my hand on my face and moved my nails

around the stubble on my jawline.

I prayed until I fell flat, and God told me to fix

this myself because he’d warned me

about Amelia leaving, but I was stuck

to the naivety of love,

and not the humble affection of pure love.

Like a good father, God made his mind up:

I’d learn a lesson about the labor required for love.

I ushered the emotions out the back door,

so happiness wouldn’t catch wind of trouble,

knocking on the front door.

I went ahead with life as I had planned.

I pushed the coffeemaker, which warmed,

percolating to pumpkin spice into a glass coffeepot.

I lifted a device and pressed a button,

and the news played. I poured coffee

and spread peanut butter on toast.

I flipped to a channel that talked about relationships.

Something was wrong, and I was sure I was to blame.

I did what I said I’d never do; I sat with a therapist

to spill the secrets of a childhood with a bipolar

mother who coped with alcohol.

She’d forget to buy food and punish me for wearing dirty clothes

to school—the clothes that she forgot to wash.

I concluded I wasn’t mad—I was afraid of rejection.

My mother died before I could forgive her, but I can forgive myself

for Amelia leaving.

“I forgive myself,” I said with my eyes closed.

I sighed, a breath and a smile danced on my lips.

ONE YEAR LATER, as twilight descended,

the front yard transforms into a mesmerizing

realm of eerie enchantment, a canvas painted

with the vibrant hues of autumn and the playful

shadows of Halloween. Glowing pumpkins,

their faces carved with whimsical grins,

line the porch steps, casting a warm,

welcoming light onto the path ahead.

A ghostly white sheet,

draped over a skeletal frame,

dances in the breeze, a spectral apparition

seemingly floated amidst the vibrant foliage.

I sat on the porch, sipping a vitamin water.

A light breeze ushered in fresh air and burning

woodstoves with white smoke floating from chimneys.

The radio played Pale Waves, pushing Glasgow

through the speakers.

I tapped my foot to the beat.

The nearest neighbor lived three miles away,

so I could do things like enjoy the music without

a cop car showing up for sound pollution.

“I forgive you, too,” a voice said.

I opened my eyes and turned my head. “Amelia.”

She held a brown bag paper bag in one hand and shifted it to her other arm. “I bought stuff for spaghetti.” Her eyes dripped with a sparkle of damp tenderness. “I figured out what I wanted,” Amelia said, her voice cracking. “You.”

“It’s the first of October, and her I am,” she said. “I’m your treat for life.”

My lips stretched over my teeth. I stood up, and we moved inside without any more disappearing tricks.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

Twitter: AC0040