The Listener

Appeared originally in Denver Quarterly

Behind the broken rails of the white fence, she moved, startling the deer. Near the cattails, she fed scraps to the dogs tied to the east wall near her sister’s face at the window, sweet breath fogging smudged glass. Every spring, the pond encroached upon the house after the rains, deer drinking from its murky edge where paint flecks floated, breaking apart on bark, leaves, and bottles filled with air. Styrofoam clashed with embers in the wind’s wake, the cup torn apart. The dogs swam under their leashes to chase bits of biscuit floating out the door to the water. Mayflies skimmed the surface and clung to the window screens. As she watched the wings’ shadow cross her sister’s face, she didn’t have anything to say. Even when she left the house, she would not speak to her brother in words. From her sister to her mother to her father’s sun-darkened hands, vases, coffee cups, sugar cubes, and teaspoons were dried and exchanged in silence. Watching the dogs at the window, she often became confused and used her mouth for the wrong reasons. Her teeth were like her hands, another way to grasp and carry necessary items from the rooms to the windows and back. Venturing out into the half-immersed porch to sit on the swing in sunlight, she let her feet move in and out of the pond water. Crouching low as she swung, she amused her sister inside, feeding the dogs bread from her mouth. They leapt up to her lips delicately as in a kiss. Their paws splashed back into the water as they carried the bread away, quickly so that the others wouldn’t steal the crumbs. Fingers were a last resort. Her sister didn’t trust them to touch faces as she trusted a mouth no longer used for speaking. Stumbling toward the window, she pressed her face against the screen to feel the mayflies lighting on her cheek. Sometimes her hands like the deer could be forgotten even by the ones who waited for their return.