I tried to phone you, but we’d reached the very edge of the meadow. Now a felled tree, some thistle. It all reminds me of a book I read, the one where the field only seems endless.
In the book, everything’s haunted, even the flowers. Especially the flowers. And the chapters aren’t numbered, so you forget exactly where you are, and where you placed the key to the room that holds all of your things from childhood.
Maybe that’s why I dial the number again and again. It goes without saying the book was right about the landscape, the way it darkens one tree at a time.
By now the receiver feels cold in my hand. My face gone pale with all this thinking.