Amabile by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Amabile

Page 103

The path from the station wound past the old mill pond. He paused there, leaning on the railing. The water was still the same murky green, the ducks still quarrelsome, the reeds still whispering in that way that made you think they knew secrets but refused to share them. Nothing spectacular. Nothing postcard worthy. But it didn’t try to be anything other than itself.

He found that oddly comforting.

His house appeared at the bend in the road, squat and stubborn, as though it had been waiting with crossed arms. The paint seemed to have faded a little more, but that wasn’t very likely to have happened in the short time he was gone. More likely it was just some mental reaction to the play of the light. The porch light still leaned at a suspicious angle. The mailbox still bore the dent from the winter the snowplow got too ambitious.

He smiled at it; an involuntary, unguarded smile.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and old books. He dropped his pack by the door. It made a soft thud, as if relieved to be done with him. For a split second Morey thought he saw his brother and sisters, but it was just an illusion; a wish that wasn’t true in this particular moment.