The smell of damp, rotten leaves permeates the evening air as another storm swells in the distance. The hammock is twisted between two oaks standing tall and naked in a corner at the far end of the back yard. Dark, muddy pools of water from yesterday’s rain look like a series of stepping stones leading out from the back porch where I am standing, across the expanse of sodden lawn to what was once my safe haven.
Now, the dark, slick branches of the trees look like thousands of burnt hands reaching toward heaven in a desperate attempt to be saved from purgatory. I close my eyes and try to remember the magnificent yellow and green hues of the leaves that dress them in the spring and summer—but all I can see is a thick, gray blanket interrupted by small bursts of crimson timed to the throbbing of my head.
I feel like the hammock looks—the threads, now thick and heavy with water, wound tight. They will soon become rotten, brittle, and ready to give at the slightest touch. It will have to be tossed out, as it can no longer hold anyone safely.
The air is icy and sharp against my skin, and I know I should go in and pull a sweater over my thin nightgown. But I stay, because soon enough my flesh will go numb and I won’t feel the pain at all.
I can no longer remember what brought me out here, so I scan the yard for movement and listen for unfamiliar sounds. Suddenly, I am very tired. I move forward, and it begins to feel as if I’m underwater. It takes every last bit of strength I have to propel myself forward, down the steps, and out onto the steeped lawn.
That is when I see him. He trots out from behind the primordial oaks, the shine of his yellow coat forcing me to finally take notice of what has been illuminating this previously dismal scene—the light of a brilliant, full moon.
I look down at my body, my skin radiant in its phosphorescence. It is then that I feel a cold nose in my palm. My hand brushes up over his head and down the long line of his back, the tip of his tail the last thing I feel between my fingers as he moves by. I am surprised by how dry and warm his body feels despite the damp blanket of air enshrouding us.
I turn to follow him, but he is already gone. It isn’t the closed door of the house that keeps me from being foolish enough to believe he is inside. I know he is gone, and that he has been gone for some time.
He rests at the foot of the lopsided oak, the one he favored lying under as I gently rocked in the hammock with a book or magazine.
When I see him like this, I know he is here to remind me to let go—not just of him, but all the things that are twisting themselves around my insides and causing tiny explosions behind my eyes.
The storm has reached my yard, it’s belly breaking open to release a bitter downpour of biting rain. I look up and let it splash down on my face. My lips break open into a smile that reveals teeth as white as the argent moon. I strip the thin nightgown from my body and begin to leap from one muddy puddle to the next, following the path they make to the two stoic oaks—the protectors of all that was ever important.
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