Autumn, 2014

Night. Wind pushes against the windows. I see my reflection, more gray than I remembered. My wife was diagnosed with cancer and autumn slipped into winter before I had a chance to breathe. The roof sprung a leak in heavy rain. At any moment the world can shrink down to a pin poking you awake. Death is always there, asserting itself like the wind, unseen but felt. The last two days –¬†in a hospital, in the city, fresh farm air so far away –¬†stretched into what seemed like months. The operation, a success. The cancer removed with her uterus that remains in Seattle for pathologist to examine, while we return to the farm, dormant in its winter guise. My wife recovering, early to bed, as I sit by the window, listening to wind.

Patrick Loafman, editor

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