chill. I sat on the sofa with Clara’s green velvet photo album open on my lap.
There was a picture of her from thirty years ago, standing on the peeling green steps of the lake cabin, holding a string of bluegills. She had the exact same nose as mine, the same slight bend in the bridge, but her smile had always been wider.
I traced the edge of the photograph continue reading …
with my thumb, wishing the paper could whisper back to me. The quiet in the living room was absolute, the kind of silence that settles into the floorboards after everyone else has gone.
In the next photo, Michael stood beside her, his arm draped over her shoulders, his silver watch gleaming in the sun. He looked younger, of course, but his smile had continue reading …
