Just outside the back veranda door there are two peacocks wishing I would take better photographs of them
Just outside the back veranda door there is a golden pheasant wanting bread
Just outside the back veranda door, beyond the ancient fig trees, there is a car and a driveway and the possibility of a road that will lead me to the nursing lodge where my husband waits for me constantly
a road that suddenly became one-way
a road that can’t bring him home
a road that reverted from tar to gravel to dirt
a road that ripped our smiles apart and gave us a new jigsaw that is too difficult to figure out
a road that, today, I cannot travel.