Whenever I go back East, memories are poised to shred me upon arrival. Denial is a vicious companion, but I believe I can survive this journey. Fully aware my heart perches tenuously on my sleeve, I decide to play chicken with yesterday.

One weather-beaten, gray telephone pole leans precariously against another, marking the road. Surrounding the poles, and on either side of the driveway to hell, stands an endless supply of bamboo. Every fall we chopped the shit out of the dried stalks, certain we’d seen the last of the stuff that each year choked more of the wildflowers and vines decorating the roadside. Every spring, it recovered with admirable resilience.

This autumn, ready to travel, my insanity whispers, “Just go.” The leaves are brilliant, the air holds a brittle chill, and though I’m dressed appropriately, cold sweat keeps me from multi-layered warmth. My rusty black Chevy Blazer, once a trusted horse, now merely a nag’s shell, crunches down the gravel drive until I see the cedar-shingle house.

Before me: the dream we built from concrete and shingle, from cedar and pine. The home where I learned that grief is chasing shadows. This house was mine. I planted the flowers on the south side of the farm pond; I stood on the porch in high summer blasting Mozart for the frogs; I watched the fog roll in each Indian summer when Atlantic chill met late-day heat. Four walls of salvation from a shitty day at work, where I could relax in the library, watching the waves flick our beach, and hold his hand.

When he acquired the property through our bitter divorce, I struggled to stay away. But every time I found myself on that back country road, whether by chance or design, I couldn’t ignore my house. Tonight, walking the grounds, I pull at a few seed pods, stuffing them in my pocket. I climb onto the porch and listen to the frogs who I swear are croaking Mozart. The library lights are off. The piano is dusty. Oddly, I can’t cry. I drop a match in the tall grass before I leave.

In my car, I turn on “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” for the frogs, and hope they’re smart enough to jump in the pond. Just before I turn onto the road, I stop for a cutting of bamboo. Orange light flickers in my rear view mirror.