Six Sisters and the Blue Ledger on Oak Street

heavy bolt clicked into place.

By eight o’clock the next morning, the scent of fresh rain and floor wax had replaced the stale air inside the salon.

Diana, my fifty-seven-year-old sister, was already working the wide broom across the linoleum, her large yellow silk scarf fluttering over her shoulder with every sweep.

I stood by the front continue reading …