We open the cottage door;
another season. The air is stale.
The rooms echo a hollowness,
reminding me of long winter
days preceding our arrival.
My bed stands alone,
neatly made, scattered clothes
and shoes have yet to adorn it.
My sister sits on the couch
wishing we had a phone.
The windows are jammed
with Spring moisture,
finally releasing like
the explosion of a 12 gauge.
The refrigerator door is open,
decorated with a single box
of baking soda.
The stench of pine cleaner
attacks the air;
my mother is at work.
I slip out to my bike.
Roger Singer 