She came in through the kitchen door already moving wrong. I don’t mean unsteady. I mean wrong in the sense of not matching any of her usual patterns, the ones I have spent considerable time cataloguing — the keys-then-bag-then-shoes sequence, the particular weight of her steps when she’s tired, the way she usually stands at … Read more
She was washing the kitchen windows today, which is a task I have never once seen her enjoy but which she does anyway, with a blue bottle and a gray cloth that smells sharp enough to make my nose twitch from across the room. I don’t understand the purpose of it. The windows always look … Read more
There is a moment every night that I have never once managed to skip ahead of, no matter how I position myself beforehand. It happens after she puts the book down. The book goes on the little table on her side, spine cracked open to whatever page she stopped on, always face-down, which I’ve come … Read more
