Mountain Home


This morning. This cool, quiet morning. The woman sits in a house she’s built in the very middle of a snowdrift on the mountain. She built it tall, like her own lanky body, so that it wobbles and teeters on its way to the slanting roof which tops it off. The house is so crooked, she’ll tell you, that if she lays a clementine on one side of the floor, it will roll to the opposite side in less than thirty seconds. She’s taken to velcroing the bottoms of plates or glasses to the shelving so as to avoid buying new sets every week when the old ones have all shattered. 


Outside, some painter is adding white to the black-navy of the sky, till the swirling colors begin to bring morning out of night. The woman watches this, watches the rising of the sun from a position so peculiar that she seems to be floating up into that sky, mind and body. She stands on the upper side of the slant in this particular floor and looks out the window so that all else falls away behind her and she could simply drift up and away. 

She is so accustomed to living slightly sideways, that when she walks into town, everyone upright appears slanted to her. In her perspective, they lean back, little backward slashes wandering up and down the streets. She, meanwhile, leans “forward,” nose to the ground, smelling the sage and rosemary and treasuring this all up in her heart.


-- anna-grace chang