William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
It showed a photograph of five-year-old boys in matching dark green uniforms, marching in a single line under a cold mountain sky.
I closed the folder and walked down the hallway to our master bedroom, my boots heavy on the carpet.
I needed to find Owen’s passport and his original birth certificate, the documents necessary to board an interstate flight.
We kept all our vital records in a small gray fireproof safe on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.
I stepped into the closet, pushing aside Marsha’s woolen coats and the smell of her lavender perfume.
I reached up and pulled the metal box down, setting it on the cedar chest at the foot of our bed.
The electronic keypad was dark, but I entered the six digits of Owen’s birthday.
The lock clicked, and the heavy lid swung open on its small hinges.
I reached inside, my hand brushing the bare gray felt lining at the bottom.
The leather pouch that normally held our marriage license, my community college contract, and Owen’s identification papers was gone.
