The house is overrun with spiders. Odd corners of sight and sound.
You walk backwards through the house. You walk backwards up the stairs. A stick-girl who wandered in from the woods. Got up off the rock she was sunning herself on.
Parallel darknesses.
Tomorrow we’ll get up early and go walking through the gorge, along that crooked path and by the muddy creek (where it happened). All of us trudging together, millions of mothers and the children they lost. Carrying blankets (the nights are cold) and trinkets to sell along the way.
I won’t let anyone touch you. Our movements may be complicated or obscure, but that way no agents could possibly deduct where on earth we are headed. If you hear noises or night voices, stop your young ears and draw closer to me. Imagine an oboe or cellist playing a pleasant lilt instead.
Not our broken necks bunched together with cord.