Thevoice says the writer's block is gone, and I believe it because thewriter's walk is gone, I'm finally headed down the driveway, going toshelter. Not a bad idea, John said. She told me a lot of stories. In a house, especially anold one, the past is closer.
By the time I'd finished dressing, my fresh shirt wasalready feeling wilted under the arms; it was as hot that morning as ithad been for the last week, maybe even hotter. I think you warned me. I framed theuncashed check and hung it in the living room. Chilly air lay on my chest like a flatiron.
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