Elle leaned against the fender of the Plymouth watching fireflies blink over the field across the highway. She had pulled onto the shoulder over an hour ago with a flat tire; it was nearly nine, but the air was still close. Her tank top stuck to her back where it had been pressed against the …
The rug was rolled and pushed with the bed up against the far wall. A chest of drawers sat catty-corner the door, drawers emptied. She hadn’t painted a room since they tried to sell the house after the kids left for school, so she poured the paint into the tray with a too-quick slosh. Dipping …
She sat next to the bed in the same chair where she had first rocked the boys when they were teething and sleepless and then years later waited for them to come home, trying not to watch the clock hands make their way towards midnight. The shades were down, but she could see the August …
This is my symphony 