My daughter has a cluster of pale marks on her ankle she calls where the weeds held me. She talks about a green lake, a red boat, and going under, and she named the summer it happened before we told her anything.
My grandmother swore he was a tall young doctor. The man at the steakhouse was seventy, a retired dentist, and the scrubs photo was from a costume party. At least the steak was excellent.
She did not want to. She said, "You will hate me for this and I have decided I can live with that."
It fell into step at the end of my street, a big black dog with no collar, and stayed at my heel the whole mile home. It vanished at my gate. My brother had gone an hour before.
I chalked up the chest pressure to indigestion and went to bed. My cat clawed at me, knocked things off the nightstand, and yowled until I finally called for help.
To prove to myself the night attacks were only in my head, I set up a camera. The footage showed me lying perfectly still. And then it showed my lips moving.
Every night on watch at our outpost, a single light appeared on a hill where no light should be. For a month we tried to explain it away. What we finally learned about that light changed how I think about the people on the other side of any line.
I timed it because I did not know what else to do with my hands. Eleven minutes. Proper belly laughs. At a doorway.
A tall man in a gray coat only ever came into my bookshop during thunderstorms, always to the poetry corner. The day I moved the Whitman, he noticed -- and he was not happy.
The drums came first. Then the bass. Then a rumor about the drummer's father that made the whole street stop complaining about the noise and start complaining about something much worse.
A twenty-year-old summer intern built a dashboard that made my whole team look redundant. Three weeks later four of us were gone and he had a full-time offer and my parking spot.
He was four. He said "occupied", which is not a four-year-old word, and he said it the way a hotel receptionist says it.
A cart of covered dishes arrived at my hotel door at 4 a.m. that I never ordered. The front desk had no record of it. Neither did the kitchen, which had been closed for hours.
My grandmother and I could hold whole conversations without speaking much. One rainy afternoon it went further than either of us had ever admitted, and it left me quietly changed.
Between number 14 and number 16 there is a garage. In her drawing there is a house, with a red door, and a woman in the window.
It lasted six weeks. Their mother thought it was a game. On the last night, one of them cried and said, "I want to go back."
Miller Lane is a dead-end dirt track off the county road with one house at the end, abandoned since before I was born. The night my headlights swept its windows, every one of them was lit, and a light was coming down the lane to meet me.
Our family clock has stopped four times in my life. Each time, someone died within a day. I found the maker's note tucked behind the face and now I understand less than before.
I fell through a frozen pond and was under for forty minutes. There was a tunnel, a light, a full reckoning of my life, and then, against every medical odd, a warm hand pulling me back.
It came each afternoon and tapped the glass by her deathbed with its beak, patient and unhurried. On the day she died it tapped once and flew off, and never returned.
