She left him long ago. Didn’t even say goodbye. Wore a red dress. Had a flower in her hair; a yellow sunflower. Shined off her brunette strands. She just got in the car and went. Hadn’t heard from her in years. Papers were never signed.

When a woman says goodbye, she means it. But what if they just leave? Are they keeping a door open? he asked himself these questions. He wondered if she’d return in the autumn when the seasons changed. If he’d see her again in a white sweater rolling in the leaves. Kissing on park benches.

People asked where she went. Some said they saw her tending bar down state. Others told him to move on. Cousins and kin folk said she was no good. Told him they’d seen this coming for a long time. He just smiled. She’ll be back, the old man said. She’ll come back. Maybe she’ll come again in summer when pines are filled in full. Green needles are prickly. She’ll take my hand, and we’ll walk through the woods amongst oaks and cut hickory for a fire at night. She’ll be back, he said.

Winter came, and death was all around. Frozen brown grass covered in ice. Bare trees and sickly people. He waited until spring when tulips bloomed. Year after year. Telling himself she’d be here any day now. The table was set long ago. Two plates and fancy silverware with wine glasses waited for her arrival. A bottle of red was never opened.

She’ll come back, he said. When the winds die down and there’s a calmness. Yeah, she’ll be back.