During the Pandemic, I’ve been locked down only a little more firmly than I had been living my sequestered, solitary life before.
The road is called Blaire, and it runs through Blacklick, PA. Little Rachel divides the houses on Blaire Road into two categories: real houses, and fake houses. She lives in one of the fake houses—the kind you can put on a giant truck and haul down the highway.
Dumbstruck, I felt like I’d just been hit in the gut by a bowling ball. Could it be the very same Samuel Menashe from Chautauqua? The old man with the suspenders and hair like lemon meringue?
Please forgive me. I need to be righteous, as righteous as possible.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning, after battling the rough night demons,
the detritus of their dark messages like sharp crumbs in my bed.
Oh, I know this poem is not about me.
And I know my husband keeps secrets. I'm glad.
I tell myself love can happen for me like it did with Scully and Mulder. Every time the world separated them, they always managed to find a way back to one another, even across countries, space and time.
I never did ask how he had drowned the kittens. I dug a little grave in my mind to bury my stunned anger. For four months, we lived in limbo, working a series of odd jobs. I remember that time now as a sort of zombie period, both of us shuffling through the dark, waving our arms ahead of us but failing to find each other through the gloom.