I stood by the window for a long time after the call ended, watching the porch light attract a cloud of tiny, frantic moths.
The next afternoon, the house felt too large, the high ceilings of the Victorian rooms holding onto the chill. I sat on the sofa with Clara’s green velvet photo album open on my lap.
There was a picture of her from thirty years ago, standing on the peeling green steps of the lake cabin, holding a string of bluegills. She had the exact same nose as mine, the same slight bend in the bridge, but her smile had always been wider.
I traced the edge of the photograph with my thumb, wishing the paper could whisper back to me. The quiet in the living room was absolute, the kind of silence that settles into the floorboards after everyone else has gone.
In the next photo, Michael stood beside her, his arm draped over her shoulders, his silver watch gleaming in the sun. He looked younger, of course, but his smile had that same reassuring curve I had seen on my porch just yesterday.
