I knock for a minute or
two, listen, knock again. I think I hear
stirring from the second floor, knock some more. Five minutes later a woman appears, red faced
from the effort of descending the stairs.
She says she just had hip replacement surgery. I wonder how she made it down on her
own. She wants the cases stacked in the
hallway, leaving only a narrow pathway disappearing into gloom at the back of
the house. The ceiling sags from ancient
water damage. Two adult sons are
upstairs, she says, one autistic, the other afflicted by head injury. I say I’m sorry, shake my head, tell her to have
a good day. The woman grips the
bannister for support. Stepping back
outside, the breeze is soft, blue sky endless.
Forsythia erupts yellow and shameless beside the porch.
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