Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

feel through the soles of my shoes.

When the doors slid open, Evelyn was waiting behind the safety glass of the outer door.

Her hair was damp from the mist, clinging to her temples in dark, neat curls.

“I did not want to ring the bell,” Evelyn said as I pushed the door open.

“You could have,” I said.

She lifted the pot, the pink flowers continue reading …