Shepherd Road

Eventually, I grab the back-door key from the cup-holder, slip a folded list into my pocket. Inside, I dig through closets to find the lincoln logs, the cardinal statue, the clock shaped like an elephant, a kettle— but the whole time I half expect to hear her: the careful shuffle of her slow, flat feet; her walker's unpredictable clap; her voice trembling with evangelical vibrato. Beside the bed, I find a King James Bible, her careful marginalia penciled in: Glory! Glory! Amen! I set it down. I shouldn't want it just because it's hers.