Frankie was barreling out of the garage like she always did, but then she checked her rearview and saw me and stopped abruptly, the back end of her car rising and falling, the taillights glowing. She got out, and she was smaller and more bent than I remembered. She approached me tentatively, her head tilted to one side. When she saw me she gasped, and she reached toward me with trembling fingers but then pulled back. “What happened? Never mind, come inside, we’ll get you some ice!” And she turned and rushed toward the house, tripping and almost falling on the steps. The house inside was a wreck, the laundry room full of clothes that smelled of mildew, the kitchen counters covered with dirty dishes and empty cracker boxes. Which was ironic because my whole life, Frankie had made it seem like we were the ones to blame for the messy house. If weren’t for us, the place would be a palace of order and cleanliness. A part of me believed that, and there was always this guilt that went ...
reflections and whimsies on literary fiction