My Childhood Sweetheart Asked Me to Sign a Special Folder in Room Four Hundred Seven

park. The oil stain on the gravel was still there, dark and stubborn under the fallen leaves.

I wondered how long it would take for the autumn rain to finally wash it away. The wind picked up, rustling the dry cornstalks I had tied to the porch railing for Halloween.

I walked back into the living room and picked up the stack of unpaid tax notices with continue reading …