Somehow, I acquired a dead man’s interrupted life.
His grey stone cottage, mid-forest. Books, a barn, blank stationery veined with mold. Curled edge photographs stacked like kindling in a dusty hope chest. They claim me.
A rusted horseshoe slumbered in the cook stove. I burnish it with wire, secure its resurrected luck with a trinity of nails above the threshold. His ashes, scattered within the orchard, coalesce. Wonder.
The locals say he lived sad and died fierce.
I lower onto our front porch stoop and caress its sun-warmed face. Yes love, I say, as he approaches.
(“Come Live With Me and Be My Love” was originally published in Sunspot Literary Journal.)