you send in a college application, and you receive an email. accepted, it tells you, and you print out three copies for luck.
the black horse still lives in the pasture. it is still silent, but you visit it often. green grass from the other side of the fence held in your flat palm, you apologize for how long you were scared.
the abandoned house with the light that turns on each night is sold by a realtor, and they put a trailer-house out front. the new owners make no attempt to reclaim the rotten wood of the old house, and the light outside manages itself—like clockwork. some things never change.
you aren’t scared of the eyes in the dark anymore, and the sleeping mask is buried in a nightstand drawer. your family buys a better water filter. you donate books to the library. you make new maps for the new roads that appear. you’re a better driver, now, anyway. you sing with the voices of the wind in the eaves. the snow comes and melts and returns again.
there are people like you, and their eyes are not empty. there are people like you, and the world is not always so lonely, and the dark is not always dangerous.
you leave next august.
but you know you’ll visit.
















