Good Luck: Episode Thirty
My memories are locked up in a wooden house, each year growing and distorting.
No roads or rails get there.
The house is over the hills, and across a wide valley, past two raging silver rivers, beyond a seemingly endless golden field stupid with wildflowers.
Some years I even believe the house gets farther and farther away.
Beyond those forever fields there is a maze of forest, which recently just filled up with wolves.
Long I’d suspected my house of memory had fallen into squalor. I’d seen the signs, recalling something and finding it wrong. A memory of my grandmother as a rabid woman. No.
Every year a new room is added to this house, and the maintenance gets worse. I should get there soon, I thought. Then I didn’t go. I should open the windows and air the place out, pull the vines down that are creeping up the downspout.
Focusing on the present, I’d let the past evade me.
Forgive me, Rachel Buleri.
I’d forgotten our sixth wedding anniversary.