'One of Us is Burning' by Peggy Riley

You tap at the window.  Scratch at the door.  

You there?  

I do not answer you.  Don’t even lift my head.  In the ladder-back chair, by the soft drip of the tap and the metal griddle with its inch of bacon fat, I hear you.  This yellow kitchen still smells of you.  Your apron with the greasy pocket, hanging from a screw.  Your false teeth in the little glass, bobbing on the bubbles of denture tabs and vinegar, an aquarium creature trying to swim for safety.  

I told you I was going.  You laughed, as I knew you would.  But look at me:  your big brown boots are laced tight round my ankles; your keys are in my fist.  Once we said nothing would come between us, but we didn’t know.  There are walls and doors and windows I can’t open.  

I watched you turn to ashes, but sometimes I’m the one who’s burning, and then I’m not sure which one of us lives here now.  

I rise and flex my foot against your giant shoes.  Work my toes into your gaps:  you’ll give me blisters.  

When I open the door, I’m trembling - that must mean that I’m alive.  The night is dark and heavy.  I push myself across the threshold and shut the door between us.  

You there?  

Do you call for me in my absence - or in yours?

I put my hands to where yours would be, still tapping from inside.

Your boots are cradles.  Your laces roots, holding me fast to your ground.  I unearth myself to walk away.  Ahead, a voice.

You there?

I stop.  “You coming?”   Your keys in my pocket, I settle my feet into the places yours have worn.