My Father Tossed a Blue Savings Passbook into the Mud at Cedar Ridge
My 1998 Buick Century with 190,000 miles on it hesitated at every single stoplight.
The engine rattled hard under the hood whenever I pressed the gas.
I prayed it would hold together just a little longer.
The address belonged to a faded brick building sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a discount shoe store.
The glass door chimed a dull note when I pushed it open.
The waiting room smelled of damp wool coats and stale coffee.
A plastic fern sat in the corner next to a stack of outdated magazines.
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