Loraine

By Eva Rogers

Seven and seven houses line the avenue leading to the columbarium, guardians of the city’s ashes. More-than-respectable  homes in a cul-de-sac, washed cars sparkling in driveways, drapes  drawn or thrown open to late afternoon sun, the smell of  wood-burning in the air—at once comforting and profane so near to the ash-house, or did the air on the street always hang heavy with such a smell? At the dead-end of the block, inside, the residents have relocated into cul-de-sacs in miniature, apartment like nooks four, five, six units high. Permanently locked doors are  framed in copper, most patina’d, or shielded by frosted windows;  names are etched in glass with gold pressed in fine ripples, or  black-inked with silver leaf edging blocky serifed letters, secret  office doors to the other side. A quiet city of upstanding citizens, not alone but gathered together in a supportive density; selected  memories displayed as talismans, infinite possibility suspended in a handful of objects: a favorite candy bar (Snickers Satisfies); a sculpture of a tiny stone home; two wedding rings; a delicate wooden bird perched on a dried rose; a figurine reaching up to the sky.