William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
The first book I pulled out was an old textbook on cognitive development, its blue cover faded along the spine where the sun had hit it in my office.
“Can I stack them?” Owen asked.
“You can stack them by the wall,” I said.
He took the heavy book in both hands, holding it against his chest like a shield, and carried it three steps to the baseboard.
He placed it down with great care, aligning the bottom edge of the cover with the dark wood trim.
We worked like that for twenty minutes, the only sound being the rustle of old newsprint and the steady thump of paperbacks landing on the floor.
I found my green cardigan, the one with the missing button on the left sleeve, wrapped around a stack of ceramic mugs.
“Is that for the cold days?” Owen asked, pointing at the knit wool.
“That is for the classroom,” I said.
I set the cardigan on the windowsill, where the morning light was beginning to warm the dark wood.
