I've never been good at leaving or letting go. Maybe that's why I send him and him and him letters that make them think we're still in love. That night, you stood on my porch, your weight against the wood railing. Though I wanted you to come closer. Though I knew nothing would happen, could happen. Still. When you left, all I had was empty sky and wet earth and a room and the things I wish I'd said, and I lay there watching the fact of the wall, and wondering. What if you threw a stone at the window? And I'd unlatch it. Lean out and wave. Come on in. And you would. You'd crack open the screen door and crawl in and we'd lie next to each other for a long time without touching. We'd lie there in the yellow light knowing what it's like to be someone lying next to someone else on a small bed in late summer.

Morning always comes. On this one, I load up my truck and you've left—no, you're not even there, you only came in my mind, but the leaving's no easier. My boots home into the dirt as I take a long last look like I always do, like I'm taking it all with me—the house and the ground and you and the way you looked at me as if I'd tamed you like the fox in The Little Prince and now you're mine. In my mind, it goes on and on and nothing ever ends and maybe then when I die they'll say, She had so much love in her life, and everyone gathered will think it was them the pastor was talking about. Each of them will leave my body behind, loving me still.

Dina L. Relles lives in rural Pennsylvania. She has work in or coming from matchbook, The Atlantic, Pidgeonholes, Paper Darts and others.

Read her postcard.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of C. Miper.

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