Sevario leaving feels like a ripping, like I'm missing part of my skin. In his eyes a sadness.
I tell myself it's only been a week, but it doesn't feel that way.
Tires crunch back down the gravel driveway, and then I wipe my eyes on my hands, wipe my hands on my jeans and go inside.
Back to my roots, I'm uprooted.
Mom isn't even here. She and Becky went to the clinic for some follow-up tests.
I pick up the gray wool I bought down South and work toward the end of a sleeve. I need more buttons. I need an anchor, or a sail.
The mail truck stops out front, then its growl grows distant. On a better day, I'd walk out, just to see.