Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
We stepped out onto the porch, where the autumn wind was starting to pick up.
“How about we bring you some lunch next Tuesday?” Mason asked, turning back on the top wooden step.
“I will let you know,” Maribel said.
She quickly shut the door before he could finish his sentence.
The closed wooden door of Maribel’s cottage, painted a faded green, staring back at us.
That evening, Mason cleared the bills off our small dining table and pulled down the blue cardboard storage box from the top closet shelf. Inside were three leather-bound photo albums with adhesive pages that had turned the color of weak tea. We sat side by side on our small sofa, the vinyl sticking slightly to our legs in the humid apartment.
We flipped through the pages from Mason’s high school graduation, his college commencement, and the family picnic at Silver Lake. In every picture, Maribel stood in the center, her thick silver hair pinned up with small tortoise-shell combs. She always wore a bright floral blouse and smiled directly at the lens.
