The North Country

I sit in the diner with the chalkboard of specials and the stuffed bobcat leaping off the wall. From my seat at the counter, I can hear the griddle sizzling. I see the grease stained cabinets through the window, a sometimes the cook—a woman with hair coiled tightly into a bun and a matching moustache over her lip. I know her habits and her vices. I’ve watched her drink cold air on the deck off the kitchen, and sometimes cigarettes too.


See, my office faces the diner. We share a bank of the frozen Boquet River. We are set in the North Country, carrying out our lives as stories. It is a place where people get stuck, lost, or born. Those who weather a few winters rarely leave. The freeze and melt seem to push their feet deeper in. They are united by their resolution to love this land despite itself. I finish my sandwich and watch the neon clock above the window. I can’t be sure if I am sinking or leaving. I suspect that they might not be that different.