The Distant Garden
Ellis. Come here, Ellis. I stood in the doorway of the pantry, holding the wooden spoon, and watched my father wipe the counter with a rag that had seen better decades. The linoleum was peeling at the corners, a brownish map of decay that stretched toward the stove. "What is it, then?" he asked, not looking up. "The letter came," I said. "From the hospital. They want to see me." He stopped...
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