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

across my front window.

Ethan’s truck.

He hadn’t driven that fast in years.

Midnight at My Kitchen Table

He came in without waiting for me to say so.

That alone took me back. At sixteen he’d always barged in hungry. At twenty-six he’d knock. At thirty-four, married, careful, he usually stood on ceremony in my house like he’d forgotten he used to skid across continue reading …