chapter one

catefrances

sitting on the jetty, her feet dangling over the edge, Emmy traces her big toe across the surface of the water. the mist has turned the world around her grey. she watches as geese land, disturbing her solitude as they call to each other. their honking makes her head hurt more than it already does. she takes a sip of tea from her mug and tries to ignore them. she closes her eyes, briefly thinking of him. it has been six months and still the pain refuses to dissipate. she still cries out in the middle of the night. she sleeps sideways across the bed, her face buried in his pillow breathing in his scent willing him to come back to them, not wanting to truly believe that he is gone. so far he has managed to remain deaf to her pleading. sometimes when the cabin is quiet she swears she can hear his footsteps. she calls out his name. asks him how his day went. but there never is an answer. only silence greets her. a silence so loud, at times it hurts.
she takes another sip from her mug and tips the remaining tea into the lake. this was his place. this is where he brought her their first night together. this was where she first saw the demons. his demons. this was where she fell in love with him. a secluded cabin among the pine trees. their nearest neighbours, the waterbirds and the fish he'd catch for their supper. he had his favourite place to fish. she never knew where it was. it was his honey spot where he never failed to catch something to satiate their hunger. while she wrote, he would fish. he'd return triumphant, holding aloft his catch. and she would call out bravo! and ask when supper would be ready. she never went with him. and she never cooked the fish he caught. this was his thing. something to help keep control. but it wasn't enough. she wasn't enough. one day he went fishing and didn't come home. now everything reminds her of him. the smell of wood burning. his boat dragged up on the lakeshore. his winter coat hanging behind the back door. his fishing hat that looked so dumb to her sitting perched upon his head covered in lures. the pile of books he kept on his beside table that would never get finished. the music she no longer listened to because she could still hear his bad falsetto strangling the words. the sight of his upturned mug draining on the sink. it has been there now so long she doesn't think she could move it even if she tried. his shaving brush and razor sitting in a porcelain mug in the bathroom. the kick of his unborn child. this is what she has left of him. memories. some happy. some sad. but all of them bittersweet.

bluejourneyman

I could read your work forever and a day!

One Song Glory

My baby sister's name is Emy, spelled like that.