30 April 2015

30 April 2015

The terrier shivered after her bath perfumed with cinnamon and orange rind. He dried her haunches with calico but it chafed; she preferred the braided rug beneath the wood stove. Wet cedar popped in the firebox; the smell reminiscent of mother’s hope chest. He sanded its inner walls every Sunday after church, until the war ended, and then out of duty as the man of the house. It sat by his cabin’s entry now, a single indentation worn where he’d remove mucked hunting boots. The trousseau’s long gone, just a ceremonial flag and lace and sullen sachet in its place.