A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
He had tried to build it himself, but the glue had dried yellow and thick, holding the blades at a slight, crooked angle.
I set the windmill carefully in the center of the trunk, anchoring it with a heavy wool blanket so it would not slide during the drive.
The garage was cold, my breath forming faint plumes in the light of the overhead bulb.
I checked the tire pressure on the rear driver’s side, finding it two pounds low.
I pulled the air compressor from the corner, plugged it in, and let the loud, rattling motor fill the garage for two minutes.
When the gauge read thirty-two pounds, I turned off the machine and coiled the black hose back onto its hook.
I wanted everything to be ready before the sun came up, every detail resolved so there would be no excuses.
I stood by the bumper of the minivan, looking at the clean, organized trunk.
The house was dark when I went back inside, the only light coming from the master bedroom at the top of the stairs.
I walked up the steps, my knees making a faint clicking sound in the quiet.
