potatoes.
She deliberately made them too firm and challenged me to complain.
Darkness still lingered beneath her eyes. Some days, she touched her ribs before standing.
But she laughed in my kitchen while snow tapped against the glass.
For several seconds, I could smell coffee, cinnamon, and pumpkin pie without fear beneath them.
I often think about that morning.
The phone ringing at 5:02.
Marcus describing my daughter as garbage.
Sylvia carving a turkey while Chloe froze at a bus terminal.
The weight of my old badge inside my
