TRUE Vermont Gothic

Our cats don’t live past six. We don’t see them die. The forest takes them. We’ve heard your cats live longer? Do you not have forests?

The heads have been taken from the chickens. We know what this means. We know what waits in the woods. There’s no fence deep enough, or tall enough. All we can do is hope it’s had it’s fill.

In the winter the trees cry. If you’re out at night, and it’s so cold you feel your lungs freeze under your skin, the trees will cry for you too.

You don’t know winter roads. They don’t know you. Or your white car. You’re not from here. I don’t care what your license plate says. That’s a white car. You’re not from here.

I see your boots. They shine. They’re meant for horses, not mud. I know you are a liar.

Winter is silent. You forget the world make sound. Winter is long.

In spring you realize something has been living under the road. When you step on the dirt, it feels hollow, like the side of a dead animal. It’s going to eat your Mercedes.

The mud is two feet deep. Don’t try to make it home. You won’t.

In the spring we bleed the trees. The blood is sweet, and flows better when it freezes at night. There are many celebrations.

We don’t lock our doors here. I don’t know how to lock the doors here. I have never seen a key.

The sun finally shines in May. The snow is finally gone. Everyone smiles. Everyone. We can’t stop. We can feel the sun again.

In the summer, clouds sleep on the roads.

It’s very beautiful here, we know. You’ve stopped your car. You don’t even realize it, we know. You’re in the middle of the road. You don’t realize it is a road anymore. Not a real road. The beauty is all there is for you now. You step out of your car. You can’t remember where you came from or where you were going. “Out-of-staters,” we mutter as we resist pounding the horn.

In the fall, the trees catch fire. Those we bled burn the brightest.