"Go outside and get a pinecone," he said. "It might make you feel better." We were on the phone because it had been the only way, and he couldn't see me roll my eyes. "What good will that do?" I said, unable to keep the scowl out of my voice. "It might make you feel better," he repeated, and I thought, this man does not understand me at all. Will never understand me, could never. "It won't," I said with authority, as if I'd already tried his remedy and it had failed. I was depressed, although now I can't remember why—he made me feel good, for the most part. He was beautiful, tall and swarthy. He was sweet, with a deep voice that stirred something low in my belly. And he liked me back, loved me, he said. "Sleep well, my gorgeous wife," but he said it wearily because we'd kept arguing over the pinecone.

The next morning, I looked out the window at the big trees and I was moved by all that green. I had a man with kind eyes and capable hands who thought that a token from the natural world could heal me. Why did I have to make everything so difficult? Okay, I'd go get a pinecone. Okay, all right, my gorgeous husband. But by the time I put mascara on and found something pretty to wear and walked out into the hazy sunlight, all the pinecones were gone. It had to be a trick, the pinecones had always been there. I grabbed my phone so I could tell him, and that's how I found out he was gone too. I hadn't lost him to weather or war, but to the girl who'd come before me. A frizzy-haired boor of a girl with dirt under her bitten fingernails. There were pictures of the mismatched couple, her grinning overbite and his furrowed brow that made him look both villainous and wise. They were living far away in a cult of two. His beard had grown long and bushy overnight, and in one picture he was wearing a watch. I thought, feeling crazed, there was still time to tell him I'd decided to be happy, but I couldn't be happy without him. I got on my knees in the wet grass, darkening the hem of my hopeful little dress. I felt frantic, looking for pinecones, looking for a sign. I found dandelions, buttercups, scrubby juniper, red berries plump with poison.

These days, I see pinecones everywhere. Scattered around the driveway, lining the sidewalk like spectators, dangling like ornaments from their non-native trees. They twirl upside down like circus girls, slender and obscene. A tiny one gets tangled in my hair even though I brush my hair constantly. I walk down the road and there's a sturdy little pinecone blocking my path as if waiting for me. I give in and pick it up. The pattern is mathematically sound, sensical and lovely, and it fits perfectly in my hand. I hold it to my ear, but I don't hear his voice. I press it to my chest, but it doesn't mend my heart.

Oh, my terrible husband. I was right all along.



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