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

The house was perfectly still.

I went over to the little table by the armchair and picked up my father’s silver pocket watch, the one Uncle John had given back to me in Canton.

The polished silver case felt cool and solid in my hand.

I crossed to the wall clock hook by the window and hung the watch up securely by its silver chain.

I stood in the sunroom, gazing out through the windowpanes at the light settling over the backyard.