Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

of drawings in the attic,” I said.

“They are just old paper, Martha,” Arthur said, turning back toward his car.

I watched the movers place the first empty packing boxes on the porch, their gray uniforms dark against the weathered cedar siding of my house.

The plastic key tag for room twelve of the Crestview Motel was the color of a bruised plum, clattering continue reading …