I’m Iris, seventy-eight, and the house still sounds like my husband, Joe—floorboards complaining in the same places, the kitchen faucet coughing unless you twist it just so. Every room keeps a memory, which can be a blessing or a bruise depending on the hour. Joe’s been gone twelve years The cousins call on holidays when they remember, but their lives exist states away, full of schedules and grandchildren I’ve never met. Four Thanksgivings have passed with me setting one plate and pretending it doesn’t echo…..CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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