William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“He smells like the store,” Owen said.
“He will smell like our home soon,” I said.
He held the green dog against his neck, his shoulders dropping two inches as he leaned his head against the soft fabric.
“Can he sleep on the blue pillow?” Owen asked.
“He can sleep wherever you sleep,” I said.
I reached out and adjusted my glasses, the wire rims cool against my fingers.
The room felt larger now that the boxes were half-empty, the cardboard folded flat and stacked by the front door.
Owen set the green dog on top of the pile of textbooks, making sure the toy’s tail was tucked neatly under its paws.
“Let us find your shirts,” I said.
We opened the blue suitcase, the one with the broken zipper that we had carried from the house in the middle of the night.
His small yellow shirts were folded into neat squares, smelling of the lavender detergent Marsha used to buy.
I laid them out on the floor, sorting them by color.
“Are we going back to the old house to get the red lamp?” Owen asked.
