November 2021

November 2021

The girl was fired and one day we will both be fire.

That’s what she told the brick, “I got fired. I got fired.” But she doesn’t smell like ashes. She smells sour because she tried to put herself out with the wrong kind of water.

The banging is done though, and for that I’m grateful. The banging is done; the person she pretended is gone, and the cold is here. The heat is on and, despite her fear, it hasn’t burned me down yet.

But still, she says to the brick, “I got fired. I got fired.”

The girl doesn’t know what she’s going to do, she says, but isn’t she already doing it? She has chosen to rearrange the furniture in the living room and scuff up my floors again. She has chosen to bury herself under laundry and blankets and count the money in the teapot by the door.

The girl can do what she wants; it doesn’t matter to me. While she is worrying and writing by the river, I am making room for the mouse in the cupboard. I am pointing out the corner where the spider might web just out of her reach. I am holding the dry hand of the fern she has decided to let die.

The girl can’t bring herself to drink the water anymore. Or even give it to the plants. So many simple things are too hard for her.

The girl worries so completely, how can I also not worry for her?

I throw the girl down the stairs.

She stays down.

When she can crawl back up, the girl sits at her desk and writes nothing. She says, “I’m going to write my way out,” and I don’t worry about her leaving. She is never still and never busy. She is only and always worried.

The girl leaves for a full day, and when she comes back, she’s grinning. She’s trailing dirt through the house and decides it’s not enough. She leaves again and returns with armfuls of dried leaves. She sets them in a pyre on her desk and lights all the surrounding candles. The girl plays with matches too often. The girl puts on a pretty dress. The girl holds the brick like a baby. The girl drinks red wine. The girl sneaks out to see the moon.

The girl is weeping. The girl is happy. The girl likes to draw a line between the two, but her hand is always shaking.

The girl has guests. She does not introduce me, only says, “Come in, come in. Be so careful on the stairs.”

I throw the girl down the stairs. Again.

The girl has guests. The guests bring flowers. Drier than the fern she’s left hanging.

The guests bring food and they use my oven for the first time. I warn the girl, be careful, be careful, be careful. But she doesn’t hear me.

The girl lights me on fire. Almost. The candlestick tips and the flowers go up like a torch. She chases the burning bouquet out onto the front porch and stamps it out. She scolds the candle and scolds herself.

The girl is okay. The girl isn’t ashes yet. The guests are gone, but I think the girl is staying.

I forgive her for saving us, this time,

the apple house