The Faded Shield
The rain in Harrowgate doesn’t fall so much as it hangs, a grey curtain drawn tight against the windows of the community center. I am sitting on the floor, my back against the radiator, holding the shield. It is not a shield of steel, nor of ancient oak, but a patchwork quilt stitched from the remnants of my life. It is heavy, absurdly so, made of my old work jackets, the curtains from the...
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