I leave before dawn, the only headlights on the gravel road.
The dairy is twenty miles away, and for that hour, I am no one's ex-husband, no one's twin brother.
My twin lives three states away now. He sends postcards from places I've never seen.
I keep a coin jar on the counter. Half of it is foreign currency he brought back from his wanderings.
I never touch those coins. They remind me of the world I chose not to follow.
The commute is my only quiet hour. The cows don't ask why I'm sleeping alone.
Sometimes I think about the divorce. Mostly I just watch the road.
The snow fills the tire tracks behind me. By morning, there's no sign I was ever there.