The Weight of Another Arm

The gravel underfoot is cool, the back garden of a house I only saw once in 1992. The rhododendron bush blocks the view of the fence, and the air smells of cut grass and dust. My fingers brush the door handle; it is a loaf of rye bread, soft, warm near the crust, and damp where the weight of my palm presses it. It hangs level, the wood of the frame listing the name 'August' where a date should be. I lift my hand to the handle, and the weight shifts. It is not my hand’s weight. It carries the density of a man's hand, broad knuckles and the faint indentation of a wedding ring. I stand still, the phantom weight settling into the crook of my elbow, heavy, solid. A small, bright yellow stain marks the bottom edge of the slate path, and I do not know where the stain comes from. I press the bread handle against my jaw, listening for a sound from inside the room.