Painted by Hand

There, 2010

The city was silent in the distance. Each building oddly outlined in white. The sky a vacuous black. Stars formed thick amoeba-like clusters, none stood alone. It was time to go. I drove through the deep night and emerged on the other side, continuing until the roads grew narrow and all of the signs were painted by hand. I made my own shoulder, as large as the road, so others could pass, and continued on foot. I discovered a bed made of pine with a mattress of fallen leaves bound by a white cotton quilt. My pillow, it did feel it was mine, was crisp and clean and scattered with wild strawberry cross stitch. Beside the bed stood the stump of a tree, on it a hollowed apple filled with fresh cider. It fit my palms perfectly. I lifted it to my lips. I slept until I woke, unsure if hours or days had passed. My apple was full, again. I sat up and sipped, looking out the lace curtains and across the prairie, prepared for the unknown.