By Abby Frucht

July 13, 2015


When I was married I crushed on another man. He played a pan flute while riding his bike past the reservoir and I stepped into his path feeling reckless one evening on one of my walks. Our groping shouldn't have led to anything more. But I was wearing a coat that had just one button, a suede coat with bright scarves I'd sewn to the hem via uneven stitches, and when we spun to the ground the scarves tangled around us, the trail aglow with crushed mulberries, my babies damp in their beds in the house down the road where their dad sat reading.

Next day I noticed the button was missing. I couldn’t fasten my coat. Cold or damp for some months I wore it flapping like wings, and when after a year I circled the reservoir and found a flat round thing that turned out to be the button, I didn’t sew it back on. Instead I’ve kept it in my pocket for twenty three years so I might close my hand around it without being seen and hear the deep, warning coo of that siren flute.

We don’t live any more in that town with that reservoir, me or my kids or their dad or that flutist. We live scattered around and we walk along trails incandescent with berries, our wives and husbands beside us, our coats buttoned up tight.


Photo "button" provided by farlukar, via creative commons license.

comments powered by Disqus « Back to Beautiful-Things

Newsletter Sign Up

shadow shadow