All summer I had a yellow kitchen on the third floor under the slates,
with gable windows up to my shoulders so while I made breakfast the
cheer-ups of robins I couldn't see were at my feet in the trees of
backyard neighbors I hadn't met. I tasted oranges, and how
much I was going to get done.
There was a circus in town the week I moved in. I grew nearly
tired of the carousel; the same songs, whether or not anyone was
riding. You could trace the circus afterward in the dead grass
in the park. Town was so still a cough went for blocks.
The carousel's tune was forgettable, but I remember its wrung-out
sound. I didn't want and couldn't afford a vacation. I
only wanted to finish.
- - -
Read SM's story, "Inheritance."
w i g · l e a F