The Last Time I Didn't See You

First, a barn owl, ghostlike, up in the shadows, resting on a joist beneath the
awning after I opened your apartment door. Eyes so black they shone like oil. But its
movements were slow, as though sick and tired, resigned. Here we are again, the barn
owl seemed to say. Looking at me, not looking at me.

The new low-income apartment complex was still mostly vacant. Built in the
middle of an immense wooded field outside of town, whoever owned the place had hung
signs low against the building’s walls—Warning: Rat Poison.

I stood on the cement porch, looking up at the owl.

Then I stood there not looking.

Then I left.

I drove and returned with no memory of where I went to or what, if anything, I
purchased. I remember, as I drove, imagining the owl flying away. But when I got back,
there were two. Another had joined the first one, up on the last joist in the shadows
beneath the awning. The first owl’s eyes were closed. The second owl’s eyes, wide and
black, gleamed, observing me. I stood motionless, not looking away, until the second owl
turned its head down into its companion.

Carefully, I stepped back inside. Closed the door behind me quiet. Once it became
late, very late, I decided to leave, for good. I filled one of your small green bowls with
water, to the top. When I opened the door, both owls were gone. I walked to the railing
and poured the water over, then couldn’t find the moon. Silhouettes of naked trees
reached out to the near-blue abyss. Smoke laced the air, a good smoke, like from burning
debris, mesquite. I wanted to tell you this, but I couldn’t, I won’t. Two owls appeared
separately. Then, together, they disappeared.