Elizabeth Lerman’s “When I dream, it is cold there too”

There is a soft nostalgia that seeps from the seams of the season’s first sweater. Something sweet and scary spools out from the threads of the thing. Maybe it’s September and what it means, how it feels to exist, always, at the beginning and end, sitting between here and somewhere. And when the wind grows cooler it coats my mind with memories that might not belong to me, because if they did, wouldn’t I remember? The fall smells like someplace sentimental. When I dream, it is cold there too. The woods keep coming back and there is always someone in them, always a reason to run inside very fast and lock the doors behind you. There are two stories here, two scenes where nothing feels safe and I think, looking out at the water, that even if I made it there I could not make it there. The dog is whining now and I am moving so slow I know I must be sleeping, but still, I want to slam my head against the wall to see if it sets something right. Instead, I put on my coat and buckle her collar and turn to the front door. It is not how I left it. All three locks are undone. All three locks are undone. Is that how I left it? I open the door and shut it behind me, not sure what I am keeping inside while I step out onto a block breathing with the season, where I can walk against the wind, whisper words I’ve never heard, and wake up any time I want.