I'm an open book,

But it's short.

I hovered over the doorbell yesterday,

When the sky was golden,

And the air wasn't too hot or too cold.

There was a dog,

Chasing bubbles

In the neighbor's yard.

The perfect day

To ask you to flip open my cover.

To bring my pages to your nose,

And smell how much they've aged

Since the last reader visited.

To feel the dust that coats page thirty-nine,

So thick,

You could trace a line in it.

No one's made it there before,

But I would be honored to share it

With you.

If it makes me desperate,

I don't mind--

Even if it makes me shudder.

I've spent too much time waiting,

Shelved and ignored,

To be embarrassed about begging.

Yet my edges trembled,

On your doorstep,

In a breeze that swept in,

That convinced me to blow away,

Never to be touched or explored,

As you trace every line,

Every word,

Every letter.

It has always been my bane,

To writhe and weep,

For that connection,

Unable to ask for it.

That tug,

A twined rope,

Stretching from your racing heart,

To the center of my story,

As you uncover more plot twists,

And discover my history

With raw hunger and adoration.

But this world does not exist,

In which your every inhale

Lifts every evident spec of neglect

From the unspoiled paper

Past page thirty-nine.

The world that is reality:

Rich with beauty,

Skin soft and sinless,

Eyes of honey

Like caramel dripping

On a sunset-lit canvas,

And delicate freckles to kiss underneath,

Is void of my description--

A synopsis not worth purchase

Or even donation.

The story is not interesting;

It won't hypnotize you

Or make you feel entranced between the lines.

But I promise,

On the last of my withering ink

Which is crumbling away

With each hopeless day,

If you'd just open the door,

If someone would open the door,

I'd make it worth the read.

I told him that I hated walking his dog.

The Bernese is strong and excited about everything and the leash is quite useless if a squirrel is stupid enough to show itself. The muscles in my arms and shoulders ache from every simple stroll through the neighborhood, and my throat stings from the constant begging and pleading and bargaining. His white and brown face, droopy and slobbering, always gives me that look over his shoulder until I give in and dig into my coat pocket for one of those bacon treats. A nightmare, indeed.

I complained about the task once more this morning, groaning about the frosted, slick sidewalks and that elderly woman south on Wadelyn Lane who always fusses about making sure that Baxter doesn't "conduct his business" in her grass. The winter was finally starting to take hold of our small town, and I despise the season and all of its freezing, windy facets. But Sam listened to every word, patient and amused, and just smiled warmly before kissing the line where my skin ends and soft curls begin. He told me he loved me and that he'd be back soon, and that he promised I wouldn't have to walk Baxter anymore once the snow arrived. And then he left.

Left me with the stubborn old giant that I swore gave me a mischievous smile through those floppy chops and waited at the door, bushy tail swishing. I glared at the muddy bootprints Sam left behind and prepared for the biting temperatures with my beanie and a thick jacket. And with reluctance, I grabbed the fraying purple leash hanging on the hook by the front door, clipped it onto Baxter's collar, and prayed that it would last another day before beginning the perilous half-mile journey around our suburban community.

The cold pierced through every pore in my face as soon as we walked down the driveway and past the tire tracks leading in the opposite direction. Baxter huffed happily and trotted, that tangled tail of fur wagging lazily and upright. Already, I could feel him taking advantage of the fact that I was his chauffeur as my torso was tugged ahead of my legs. My breath puffed out little clouds in front of me when I grumbled his name in warning, tilting my head to the sky beseechingly. But he acted as if he didn't hear me as he carried on, lifting his nose in the crispy air to take in all of the wonderful smells. My own nose twisted after we passed a pile of fresh, steaming dung on the sidewalk; I could only redirect Baxter's attention to a lilting bird's song and some sirens in the distance at that point.

Eventually, we passed the elderly woman's house, and she was conveniently seated on her porch with a mug of coffee giving off grey tendrils of warmth. Her eyes were narrow with sternness and judgment while she watched us pass. I just took my free hand out of the comfort of my pocket and offered an awkward wave with a tight smile. She didn't repay the gesture, but apparently found it in herself to nod.

But of course, the ever-argumentative mountain dog had to stop to sniff the dying blades of grass. My eyes widened at the unexpected audacity--even Baxter doesn't edge the widow's temper. I gave a gentle tug on his leash, which gave no assistance as he kept his snout down, inhaling whatever could possibly be so interesting in an aggravated neighbor's yard.

"Sorry!" I shouted. "We're working on his manners!"

She just stared at me expectantly, one leg crossed over the other while she waited for me to make Baxter obey. I grabbed at the side of his collar, making him look me in the face. I spoke through gritted teeth:

"You are embarrassing the hell out of me. Let's go."

He looked at me blankly, unmoving when I went to guide him along. I growled.

"Baxter, now."

Nothing.

I sighed, pursing my lips so hard they went numb in the freezing air.

"Okay, I will give you two bacon treats if you listen to me. Two. Treats."

The strange look the old woman gave me from across the lawn didn't go unnoticed, but I pretended not to see it, instead savoring the small victory when Baxter's tongue fell out in response to the bribe. He may be a dog, but he is fluent enough in a few select words to know when he's getting a good deal.

By the time the rest of the walk was complete, and Baxter received both of his treats, I was satisfied with the amount and difficulty of the challenges presented. The house was quiet and levels more pleasant than outside. I rewarded myself with a hot shower, breakfast in bed, and a hot cup of lavender tea while Baxter munched on his bed in the corner of the living room. Hours passed, and I prepped dinner: alfredo and garlic bread. I waited on the couch until six o'clock with my favorite reality show playing in the background.

And when he was late, I called to ask when he'd be home. I was only met with that welcoming, clever voicemail of his.

When another hour came and went, I worried about dinner, and how it was getting cold.

And finally, he knocked on the locked front door, and I was already scolding him about not answering my calls and letting a perfectly good meal go cool before I opened it for him.

But I found another man on my doorstep, all dressed in black and blue and holding his hat with both hands in front of him. He wore a pitiful face, and his eyes gleamed with exhaustion.

Baxter walked much slower to my side after my knees slammed into the muddy bootprints on the hardwood floors. He whined next to me after I screamed a cry so loud that other doors across the street opened. He laid down, pressing into me for comfort as the stranger in blue, who I'd never met before, knelt down and gave me his condolences and apologies for my dead fiance.

It was slick on the roads, he said.

It wasn't his fault. There was a young girl learning how to drive with her father.

None of them made it.

It wasn't five minutes from home.

I'm sure he was a good man.

And all of this talk in past tense...the words bit much colder than the winter that would come.

The last thing I'd said...

I told him I hated walking his dog.

-------

I never cleaned the hardwood floors by the front door.

I let the tire marks fade on their own, never parking in Sam's place.

I walked Baxter in every snow, every flurry, every blizzard.

And he never pulled or tugged or bothered the old woman's grass again.

Her name was Judith, I learned. And she loved her husband very much. He died of colon cancer in his forties, and she'd never felt so rotten and alone after the fact. But even so, after she'd heard of Sam's death, she brought freshly baked pies and home-cooked meals to that front door. And she talked for hours, every so often even sneaking a small bite of lasagna or bread to Baxter under the table. And I listened, not often speaking or necessarily kind, but Judith didn't seem to notice.

I never sold the house, and I slept alone for many years after.

But when the couple down the road moved in, I watched the young woman walk their German Shepherd, and I laughed every time she struggled to make him listen or relax. I kept bacon treats next to the mailbox--with a sign that said take one. And I bought salt every winter.

Spreading it on every home's driveway before the sun rose on Wadelyn Lane.

I lit a candle in the wind

By the beach

The spray of every crashing wave

And the breath of every breeze

Threatening the love aflame.

I curl a hand around the wick

Afraid but still walking forward

Into the sand

Into the darkness of the night

That reveals nothing.

Hopeful that the fire will live.

But every grain beneath my soles

Quivers and nearly slips away

You stand not twenty paces out

Holding an empty lamp and oil

To protect and nourish my light.

There is nothing more I desire

Than for you to crave this too

To feel empty in your chest

And untethered to the earth

Without me in your arms.

Hopeful that your fire will live.

I cry out into the wind

The candle clutched to my chest

Wax pooling down my palms

Burning and blistering and bubbling

And still I offer safe harbor.

Your smile makes the flame waver

My heart follows suit

Lungs compressed and narrowed

But I risk the journey

To you.

Hopeful that our fire will live.