Strains – a word I use expressly – of music weasel through the wall of our segregated domain. Wailing men from decades long gone, dogs howling from a kennel. Here’s one moaning that things’ll never be the same. Lost love, hiding behind his tears.
“Some time after her mother died – when time was a newly pliable thing, twisting from present to past and back again in the moment it took to cross a room – Vicky found a pair of earrings.”
