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.


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