When my heart is breaking I go to the woods; lay down in the fallen leaves, the chill of damp earth creeping up from tailbone to base of neck. There is a chickadee out there, somewhere, I hear him calling.

How often we retreat to the quiet when the world feels so loud it may drown us. Seek out the escarpment cascading, creeks overflowing, the turning leaves from green to yellow, orange. Red if we are lucky.

Stumble over rocks and tree roots, run the trails and my heart races, thinking This is what life is, right here, right now. Hello Pines, Hello Dogwoods, Hello Wild Roses soon to bud. Remember me? I’ve been here before. Thank you for welcoming me again.

When my heart has broken I seek out the indestructible. Feet dangle over ledges up high. Find hills to climb and stand at the top, imagine myself screaming out loud but mostly never finding the courage to do so. What if they hear me?

I wonder if the foxes saw me watching them that night, as I climbed downstairs, sat on the hood of the car while they played. Is this what joy is? It surely feels like joy to me.

I think of that house often. The brick one with the big window downstairs and the balcony up top, sandwiched between two other brick houses with big windows and balconies. The one with the staircase heading up from the front door. My room upstairs, looking out at the gas station across the street. She knows my fingerprints trailed along her walls. Felt my palms on the railing, body sprawled out on the stairs. My tears and sweat pooled onto the floorboards. Blood washed down the drain. If she were a sponge she would be filled with laughter, and yelling, and classic rock music, wooden spoons tap tapping on the cupboards and carols sung to clanking piano keys. At eight and ten we weren’t very good.

We dropped his ashes into the sand of a specific place on a specific date. Hello Pines, Hello Waves, Hello Gulls. Remember us? We’ve been here before. Thank you for gifting us this resting place. They blew in my face and sounds escaped as if we too were dying.

I keep returning.

In the mornings we sit with the black walnuts, and the goldenrod, and the anemones. Watch the sun come up, the roosters crow, and so begins another day. Each one the same, and each one, different. When I close the door the goldenrod still sways in the wind, the birds still sing, and the rocks still hold their place. The cup is washed and on the shelf, the bed unmade. When I’ve left, do they remember me?