Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I stood there for a moment, listening to the hum of his television resume on the other side of the wood.
I turned and walked down the stairs, leaving my father behind in the dark.
The streetlamp outside Gerald Benson’s downtown office cast long, pale ribs of light across the pavement.
I sat in the passenger seat of Sarah’s truck, the engine turned off and the windows rolled down to let in the cool, salt-tinged air from the bay.
Sarah leaned her head against the headrest, her eyes fixed on the rear alleyway of the brick building.
She reached into her glove compartment and pulled out a small paper bag of lemon drops, holding them out to me.
“Your favorite,” she said.
I took one, the sour sugar coating dissolving on my tongue as we watched the entrance.
“We really thought we would never come back to this county,” Sarah said, her voice quiet in the dark cab.
“I came back for the house,” I said.
“You came back for a home, Maria,” she said. “There is a difference.”
