The geese retreat to the south every year. The flight, roughly 3000
miles long, brings the flock to open water. On my afternoon walks,
I’d see them over the lake right out. The feathers blowing everywhere
like dandelions. We were renting a cabin up in Connecticut then, hart-
ford area. Down by the reservoir. You were taking care of me— you’d
been worried. We had a routine. I waited for your red pickup to drop off
Tupperware every morning and heated up the leftovers at dusk. I always
asked you for more than I ate because I fed them to the geese outside to
keep them quiet. Otherwise they’d be non-stop quacking at night. You
got suspicious, of course you did, but I knew you’d been too afraid to
ask. By Mid-december the boxes had been everywhere. I began to
disappear for longer and longer. I wanted you to say something; ask me
if I needed any company, but nothing changed until February. When
the maples stopped sapping and the flock went back up north, I packed
my bags. I wanted to leave with them. I’d been foolish. The suitcase I
carried was full of bread. Too heavy. I ran with the birds for miles until
they began to take off, one by one. Their feathers trailing behind away into
wind. Another kind of continuation: I watch. I watch. I let them go on.