William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I reached into the cupboard and pulled out two blue plastic plates, the ones I had bought at the discount store down the street.
The plates were light and thin, but they were whole.
I used a butter knife with a white plastic handle to spread the peanut butter, making sure to get it all the way to the edges of the bread.
Owen stood on his tiptoes, his chin resting on the edge of the laminate counter.
“Can the green dog have a corner?” Owen asked.
“He can have a very small crumb,” I said.
I cut a tiny piece of the crust and placed it on the counter next to his elbow.
Owen picked it up and held it to the green dog’s mouth, making a quiet chewing sound in the back of his throat.
The kitchen window was open an inch, and the smell of damp oak leaves and wet pavement came in from the courtyard below.
It was the middle of October, and the air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of the turning season.
