William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
We began with the heaviest boxes, the ones marked with black felt-tipped marker that David Vance had helped me carry up the three flights of stairs to our new two-bedroom apartment.
The living room was small, with walls painted the color of fresh cream and a sliding glass door that looked out toward a quiet courtyard filled with maple trees.
I sat on the wooden floor with a roll of clear packing tape, using my thumb to find the lost edge of the plastic roll.
Owen sat six inches away from me, his small legs tucked under his chin, watching the tape hiss as I pulled a long strip free.
“We will do the books first,” I said.
He did not say anything, but he reached out his hand and touched the corner of a cardboard box that had the word Library written across the side in blue ink.
I sliced the tape with the edge of my house key, the sharp metallic click echoing in the empty room.
