1870
The inside of Cristiana’s house was thick with dust. There was dry mouse turd along the floorboards and all the preserve jars were cracked and spilled. The front door was shoved in and the floor bulged with winter wet. Charles and I stood outside for a time not daring to enter the house. Eventually, I trekked down the hill to the old henhouse and pushed my way into the space. The coop was dry, the straw sweet smelling, but admixed with the sour dust of chicken s**t. My entry plumed up stray feathers. I could see precisely where I’d once slept and recalled the warm places of Cristiana’s body comforting me. I breathed in deep but there was no lingering perfume of her. Charles was behind me. I felt the boy’s hand on my arm and looked down, following his gaze. There, shy and stuttering,
