we were sixteen, wearing matching blue cotton dresses our mother had made. We had the same curly hair, the same serious set to our mouths, but Clara had always been the one who spoke first.
If she were sitting here now, she would tell me exactly what to do about Michael’s visits. But her voice was gone, and the only sound in the house was the low hum continue reading …
of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
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I looked at the silver wedding band on Clara’s hand in the photograph, wondering what she had done with it before she went into the hospital. It hadn’t been among the personal effects they handed back to Michael, and he had never mentioned it.
I closed the album again, my mind drifting back to Rachel’s continue reading …
