imaginary excerpts series: #2

Whenever I get home, I see him standing in the doorway, though the door is closed, and he hasn't been here since last winter. I see him clear as I see the pine trees surrounding our house. I see him because I need to, because if I let myself think about the fact that he left me for the woods, I might end up leaving myself too. Or maybe making a run for it through the trees that hold him. For now, I see him. Standing there. Arm over his head, leaning on the door frame, holding his steaming black coffee in his other. Flannel. Beard. Old jeans. Hunting socks. Boots by the door. The boots I don't have to imagine, because they were left when he went away. I can't think about that too long, either. His cold feet, his loneliness, his empty memories. In the doorway. There he is.