Ana guiltily killed the black mantis in the kitchen today when she visited. "I'm sorry, little guy, but you have to stop terrorizing Evie," as she snuffed it out with a paper towel tube. Ana is made of railroad spikes.
As we took in the view of the autumn-marbled hills from my back porch, she assured me that I didn't feel far away. "It's like you're at your cabin, working on your novel."
Every couple of days, I'll wake up and forget that I live here. I'll expect to be in my old apartment, or in an ex-boyfriend's bed, or in my tiny trundle bed in the house I grew up in.
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