and feast on prime rib and prawns and strawberry shortcake for dessert.I look up from my garden only when the woman has passed by, whenonly her trail of smoke lingers, a haze, an apparition, in the morning air.
I see her all the time now.
The woman who used to live in the abandoned trailer on my family’s property, the woman whom I removed from the place she brieflycalled home. In June, I see her in the parking lot at the grocery store.In July, I see her walking across from Webster, the elementary school inmy neighborhood. In August, I see her on the sidewalk in front of theEpiscopal Church of the Nativity. I see her on the levee along the SnakeRiver, downtown at a red light waiting to cross the street. She carries aplastic grocery sack, sometimes a purse, and wears basketball shorts or astriped maxi skirt or jeans cuffed at midcalf. I don’t speak to her. Whatwould I say? I keep driving the other direction—a glance back in myrearview mirror—and then I catch a glimpse of myself, and I look away.