The Well House

On the farm where I grew up,
the electric pump for the well was in a tiny plywood shed
with a light bulb and space heater

My parents and sisters did the things they did,
and I would go to the well house
and shut myself inside with the light on

I would sit on the concrete floor, reading and reading
in the sliver of space between the pump and the door

The pump would kick on and I would read
while the sound and vibration
meant that someone in my family was washing dishes
or flushing a toilet or taking a shower
or maybe filling a bucket to carry to the calves

No one knew where I was

Drifting bitter snow and bruising summer heat
and parents and sisters and relatives and church
and school and meanness and confusion and sadness
were a million miles away

I was always careful to turn the light off when I left
and to check for books or magazines before I closed the door

I got older and left the farm
and met a girl and we got married
We lived in cities and we had kids and jobs and bills

There was always something and another thing and another
and sometimes I would think
that I used to read in a place where nothing ever happened

Sometimes I would visit the farm and see the well house
with its flaking paint and secret

I was 33 years old when a tornado ripped apart the well house
and left the pump protruding from the concrete slab

The new pump went in the basement
and the wood from the well house went to the burn pile
where the wind blows ashes off blackened hinges and nails