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The Beginning of the End of All That

I will say nothing about what I know. When John comes in, emanating winter in his wool coat and his scarf and his cheeks rosy, his nose bright, his eyes, as always, like ice. If I didn’t know it yesterday, then I will still not know it today. By the time I see my husband again, I’ll have already put it all out of my mind. And he can continue to rest assured.

What I know is what I’ve always known. What I don’t know is, who sent the note. There was no postage, so I have to assume that it was hand delivered. Someone walked it to the box. Or drove it there. We can’t see the road from the house, because the driveway is almost a quarter mile long, and when we bought this house all those years ago, one of the things I loved about it most was exactly that, our remove. Then, there was a white fence—now that’s gone—and, for me, an attraction to, a sense of fortitude in, the idea of that daily half-mile walk to pick up the mail. Also gone. Or in sending the children for it, later, when there were children. There were none. With the dogs alongside, romping. Chasing each other. Chasing a tossed ball. Yes, over the years, there has always been a dog...

Read the rest in The Adirondack Review