ADVERTISEMENT
front lawn. Banker’s boxes, plastic totes, a rolled rug, a lamp with the shade off, one of those dusty fake ficus trees.
Colleen stood beside them in a puffer vest, talking on her phone.
My mother was at the front walk holding a foil-covered casserole dish like a woman arriving for a church supper.
My father was halfway down the U-Haul ramp carrying a continue reading …
ADVERTISEMENT