Illustration by Andres Garzon It was a long drive back from the cottage. We awoke hungover in […]
“You’re late, Isaac.”
In my grandmother’s garden there was a stunted, knuckled tree near a ramshackle bomb shelter, a sheet of corrugated iron curved over a shallow hole.
It was no use trying to talk sense into Sylvia when she got like this.
“Why is everything so fucking dark lately? What happened to happily ever after?”
On Wednesday, I watched her steal a daylily from my garden.
By the time Mariel arrives at the water’s edge, the sun’s hanging low.