William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
He nodded once, a quick, decisive movement, and took a drink of his milk.
A white mustache remained on his upper lip, and he did not wipe it away.
I watched him eat, the knot that had lived behind my ribs for six weeks beginning to loosen, thread by thread.
We finished our lunch in the quiet of the small kitchen, the sun reflecting off the chrome toaster on the counter.
I washed the blue plates in the sink, the warm water running over my fingers, feeling the solid reality of the ceramic basin.
Owen stayed in the chair, his fingers tracing the yellow pattern of the vinyl seat.
“Can we go to the park later?” he asked.
“After we finish the boxes,” I said.
“The park with the green swings?”
“The very one,” I said.
I dried my hands on a dish towel and walked out to the balcony, leaving the kitchen door open so I could hear him.
The balcony was narrow, just wide enough for two metal chairs and a small green plastic table.
