My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
Each report card had the same signature in blue ink at the bottom of the page, the cursive letters perfectly aligned with the printed rule.
I remembered how she would sit at her mahogany desk on Pine Lane, her pen hovering over the paper as if she were deciding whether to approve my progress.
I placed the stack on top of the photographs and closed the cardboard flaps, sealing them with two strips of grey packing tape.
The tape made a sharp, screeching sound as I pulled it from the dispenser, the noise echoing in the small kitchen.
I carried the box to the corner by the front door, stacking it on top of the two cartons of books I had packed the previous evening.
My hands were grey with dust from the old albums, and my thumb kept turning the silver band on my left hand.
The silver pocket watch sat on the small wooden table by the window, its metal face polished and clean under the grey morning light.
I did not touch it, but I could hear the steady, mechanical click of its gears from three feet away.
