The Only Story Left

Their parents left them, a boy and a girl, brother and sister, in the vast wild world of raspberry brambles and dogwood, lawyers and fast-talking brokers. But brokenhearted, sick, heartsick. Full up with grief. The mother said, Be brave. The father said, I’ll see you tomorrow. Then they died.

And some people watched and some people helped and some people sighed and said, They couldn’t live without each other.

The lake said nothing and the girl loved its promise not to ease her grief. The gray Cape Cod house said nothing. And the possum under the porch kept gnawing into it. Because the house used to be full of food and love? Or because the possum had teeth and had to use them for something?