She keeps a tatty straw broom in the kitchen propped up against the back door to chase away stray cats. On her nightstand always sits a bottle of something made from cherries she uses to help her sleep on nights that her yesterdays, tomorrow’s, and today’s want to stay up all night. An old grandfather clock stands in her foyer silently paralyzed; frozen in time like the calendar marked with a big red X in the vestibule on May twenty-fourth two thousand sixteen.  An unopened letter addressed to Sarah lies on the mantle of the fireplace that has not been used in years. She keeps two plastic pumpkins on the front porch year-round shadowed by a witch hat nailed to the door. She says when asked in July why she has not taken the assortment down, that “it scares away salesmen.” The real reason is to frighten away unwanted visitors! Sometimes she rides a dirt bike all night long in the hills behind her house. One lone light traveling paths she knows of by heart. On foggy nights its’s an eerie reminder of life; both now and forever on that bike they bought together. She transacts her life in memories. A passerby walking down the street in front of the house saw her beating rugs with a large broom and was going to stop and offer help but when he saw her reach into her apron and pull out tissues to dry her eyes he realized she was hitting the rugs way to hard; he kept on going. Now drunk men might say they forget and rich man can just move on to the next free piece of star struck wanderlust; but only an insane man would never try to find a way to come back to her again.