I went to bed early, set on dreaming my mother in her long, fuzzy blue bathrobe, sitting in her rocking chair. To apologize for dreaming her in the altogether, in a tree.
I couldn’t sleep.
Not while this Ulaneak Creek cabin kept telling me to go home, calling me “Sourdough.” “Sourdough go home. Sourdough go.”
When I finally drifted off, the cabin stole my dreams. When I woke up, the walls were damp inside. And the door handle was singed.