My cravings

 The only thing I’m craving is a drive to the mountains. the sky is wet and gray and we slow down to try and find the right turn in the road. we think this small, dusty road is the one, so we take its curving path upward and we’re climbing higher up the mountainside and okay maybe this wasn’t the right road, but we’ll turn around when we get there and the winding drive reaches this shuttered old house with moss growing in patches along the roof and the white porch stained with dirt, the swing slanted with a failed, rusted chain. We don’t have to be anywhere for a while, and I’m too intrigued by the stone path leading towards it; the abandoned garden in the side yard. We hesitantly step out of the car, just excited enough, wondering if this is the spontaneous adventure we talk about. You point out the gnarled tree growing over a broken bike. I hold a decaying poppy head in my hands. We look up at the house, meet the eyes of a phantom, a fading woman in white, looking down at us from the attic window.