My Son Called at Midnight About the Blanket His Wife Threw Away

thumb along the hidden edge and thought of Robert at thirty-four, sitting at our tiny kitchen table in 1996 with grease on his work shirt from the delivery truck he drove nights after the shop closed. He’d emptied his pockets the way he always did. Keys, folded receipts, one screw, one nickel, one peppermint, a pen that didn’t work.

And an envelope.continue reading …