Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

face again.

She was not perfect, Clara, but she looks exactly like she belongs.

I set the cup down on the grey Formica.

The paper had softened slightly from the heat, the green ink turning a shade darker where my thumb had rested.

I walked back up the hill slowly, my feet finding the rhythm of the cracked concrete sidewalk.

The wind had died down, and the continue reading …