Laura Newbern

At dusk, the grandmother sits alone in the light of the long pale pool and speaks to the frog who is waiting by the electric gate of the clubhouse. It will be all right, she says, leaning out from her chair. Her voice is churning, and old, and wet with advice. Her newly red hair purples under the bug light.It will be all right, she says, again, and again the sky rolls in and out on its journey across the peninsula, rattling the palms.