Only the caustic-cold, off-blue, computer-screen glow lights my bedroom now. I open iTunes, double-click our song, and select “Repeat.”
Every morning, she sits in the lobby, her purse and coat beside her. “My son is coming,” she tells the nurses. “He’s going to take me home.”
Why do random acts of kindness always happen to other people? Can’t someone out there send me something? A postcard would be nice. From you.
Paper covered the slanted window at the door. Children laughed and squealed outside. He sat there and wished for Thanksgiving to come quick.
No one doubted Grant’s survival stories of Alaskan life hardships, but they delayed visits ’til all his frozen whale blubber was consumed.
Looking through the lens, Jerry saw her sitting beneath the birch on the old park bench. Click. She’d look nice in his collection.