It's A Strange Love:

In an unblemished cyan sky hung a scrap of white moon on a warm day in January. I ran through town dragging my gaze along historic rooflines, staring at the past. My shadow danced across a saltbox's crooked stoop and melting glass panes. I loved that old home.

I had once touched the smooth stones framing its fireplace where men and women cooked, kept warm, sat by its light, and lived and died to the rhythms of sunrise.

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He asked if I ever got mad at my dogs.

I love those dogs, but it's a strange love that often starts with yelling and ends in exasperation.

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Every morning I stare at Ann's house sitting next door on its plaster and stones, painted siding fading and chipping.

I wrote a letter to her a few weeks ago and can picture her, an old woman shuffled off to a daughter's house, staring at an unfamiliar Florida morning filled with rippling heat.

I hate the heat, Ann had said over the phone. It's boring here and there are no kids. No one on bikes or playing. It's boring and I can't go anywhere.