Yellow Ceramic Mug and Red Silk Scarf in a Red Buick

the bottom of the steps.

The dew on the grass had not dried, and the cold mist rose from the garden beds.

“We need to talk about the transition, Mother,” Julian said, his voice carrying that familiar, flat tone.

I did not answer him, focusing instead on the way the light caught the peeling white paint on the wooden balustrade where a storm had cracked continue reading …