“37. This morning, Sunday, I dressed and went to town and had bacon and waffles at the diner. It’s a nice walk along a country road, though you’ve got to be careful. There’s not much of a shoulder and the logging trucks are speeding buildings driven by lunatics. When we were kids, for a while Claire and I played a game she invented. She couldn’t have been older than eleven. She put me in her closet. Her clothes fall around me. They brush against my cheeks and gather in folds acro...ss my shoulders. Soft dresses, a ratty green robe. I watch for her shadow to break the line of white light at my feet. Smell of laundry detergent, strawberry Bubble Yum and a sachet of my mother’s cinnamon potpourri. In my throat I am making the growling noise of an eighteen-wheeler. From full throttle to downshift. The braking whine, the stuttering stop, which always makes her giggle. I push the door open.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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