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Two Seasons of Rural Depression; or, Even the Cleanest Mountain Air Can Sour

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we grew bitter together that year, the three of us. we lived in a little house in the woods at the very top of a mountain.

it took twenty minutes to walk down to the town below, but twice as long to walk back home. my thighs were gigantic tree trunks that year.

it felt impossibly hard to leave the house some days, some months. the snow was hip deep through the winter. my cat felt trapped in our bedroom, and decided to pee on everything i owned. i felt trapped in our bedroom, so couldn't really blame her.

the fridges at Extra Foods went out one day in november, and so we had a truckload of dumpstered cheese to eat. we stashed it outside in a snowbank so that it would keep, each day eating it in chunks until we felt sick.

it was beautiful, and i wouldn't pretend otherwise. stews would warm upon the woodstove for days. the mountains and the woods were beautiful. we played fiddle and clawhammer and there was so much quiet and space.

but i was deeply unhappy in the cabin, through that year.

 
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