Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

“Some men build their house out of timber,” Uncle John said, “and some build it out of straw and pray nobody strikes a match.”

I smoothed the blue wool cardigan down over his arms and bent to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll be back on Sunday with a container of fresh chicken soup,” I said.

“Bring the soup,” Uncle John said, “but leave the rest of the family business out at the front gate.”

By four thirty p.m. the local locksmith had his brass toolbox open on my porch steps in Oakridge.

Clara carried my second blue suitcase up the walk from her car and set it next to the door.