Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

my thumb automatically tracing the small, crescent-shaped chip near the base where it had clipped the edge of the iron sink.

“He did not say much,” Clara added, pulling another sheet of newspaper free.

“He never did when he was wrong,” I said.

“He looked smaller,” she said.

I set the cup on the top shelf of the cupboard, aligning the handle so it pointed continue reading …