Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
She sat down in the wicker rocker on the porch and wrapped the pink blanket carefully around Luna, tucking the edges under her feet to keep out the evening draft.
“She is almost asleep,” Martha whispered, rocking back and forth.
I sat on the top step of the porch, looking out over the yard. The grass looked dark in the fading light, the edges of the property blurring into the shadows of the surrounding trees.
I thought of the long road that had brought us here, of the missing keys and the empty savings account. Those things felt small now, like stones thrown into a deep well, the ripples long since gone.
“We are going to be just fine here,” I whispered, the words steady and true in the quiet evening.
Martha did not answer, but the steady creak of the wicker glider was enough of a reply. She reached down and smoothed the pink blanket over Luna’s chest.
I leaned my back against the wooden post of the porch, feeling the solid, cool grain of the pine against my shoulder. The house behind us was warm, the windows glowing with a soft, yellow light that reached out into the dark.
I watched the long shadow of the old oak tree stretch slowly across the quiet green yard, reaching all the way to the porch steps where we sat together.
