She’d brought almost nothing to the old Olema farmouse he’d said she could stay in for the remaining months. The Apache pot of twigs and piñon gum and red ocher, a jar of sour cherry jam, some fine-tipped artist’s brushes she could use to draw shorebirds or hawks, or write a line or two to them when the time came. Or of course maybe in the end she’d write nothing at all. The pot, round as a hug she carried with infinite care into the bedroom and set on the floor beside their outworn wedding bed, was big enough to hold it all, the perfect emptiness she’d come to.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christie B. Cochrell is an ardent lover of the play of light, the journeyings of time, things ephemeral and ancient. Her work has been published by Tin House and New Letters, among others, and has won several awards including the Dorothy Cappon Prize for the Essay and the Literal Latté Short Short Contest. Her short story “The Pinecone” received Honorable Mention in the Glimmer Train March/April 2016 Very Short Fiction contest. Her poetry has been published by Red Bird Chapbooks and Figroot Press, and her flash prose has been published by 101 Words and Dime Show Review.