by Melanie Tem
A century later, when Deborah, against her better judgment, returned to the four houses in northwest Denver one last brief time, the wind had stopped, too. The quarter moon cast enough light that the neighbors on Harvey and Ingram Streets, 32nd and 33rd Avenues, might have seen, if any had been watching, a lone figure of indeterminate shape circling the block.
Might have seen her crouch on the west side of the mother house’s artificial hill. The house was all dark except for a soft light in the front room, where a man held a quiet baby and sang to her (sad lullabies about a mother who loved her, sweet lullabies about a mother who left) as though he’d done it all his life. The tiny furred head rested (safely for now) in the crook of his elbow. The tiny body nestled against his chest.
Might have seen her gaze at the house behind the wall. Might have seen her turn away, run away.
Might even have seen her tears.
But nobody saw. A few, roused from their sleep or sleeplessness, went out onto their porches in their nightshirts to see what was disturbing the peace. Dogs yipped nervously and scratched on their kennel gates. Cats called to be let in, or sat on inside windowsills and stared balefully out. But this was a quiet, safe, orderly neighborhood, and no one was really afraid.
Except Deborah. Running. Doing the only thing she could think to do, out of love and fear for her child; taking a profound risk. In a transforming sacrificial act, leaving her daughter behind.