The last time I saw my first love was on my 17th birthday—thirty years later, a woman who looked exactly like her stepped into my yard

purposes only

Mowing the lawn at six in the morning. Cleaning the gutters. Organizing the garage into a system nobody but me would understand.

Anything with a motor, a task list, or enough noise to fill a head that would otherwise drift somewhere I didn’t want it to go.

Her name was Lily.

We were seventeen — the kind of close that adults watch with slightly continue reading …