What the Dust Buried and the Bank Took Away
The pitcher sat on the windowsill. It had been white once, with a blue rim painted by a woman in Tulsa who sold crockery out of a wagon. The blue had faded to a color that was no longer blue but a memory of blue, the way the sky outside had faded to a color that was no longer sky but a memory of what a sky should look like. The pitcher held no water. It had not held water in three months. The...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 3 Views 0 previzualizare