| Tuesday spent pursed behind cigarette-yellowed blinds. My cold coffee at my elbow. There are skin flakes in the scrapbook�s binding. Her face is in paper-cut focus, but I�m looking at the fire hydrant blurred in the snapshot�s corner. The shiny red surface, and she was still smiling, then. Four days later the stone flakes removed to mark the date on the grave fell into my palm and slid to rest between my fingers. |