A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
The ink dried quickly on the page, the blocky letters of my handwriting looking foreign in a book that had always been kept in her rounded script.
I closed the planner, the leather spine creaking in the silent room.
I carried the planner down the hallway and out to the garage, the air smelling of oil and old cardboard.
The silver Toyota Sienna sat in the center of the concrete floor, its passenger side door showing the small dent from a parking lot post three years ago.
I unlocked the trunk, the interior light casting a dim glow over the clutter inside.
There were two broken umbrellas, an empty windshield washer fluid jug, and Marcus’s science projects from the previous spring.
I began clearing the trunk, placing the old sports equipment into a plastic bin near the lawnmower.
I needed the space to be entirely clear for the morning run to the school.
I found Marcus’s miniature windmill project, the balsa wood blades fragile and dusty, sitting on a high shelf near the garden tools.
I wiped the dust from the blades with my thumb, checking the small plastic motor he had glued to the cardboard base.
