Contributor: C.L. Manion - - He had ink on his hands. I remember the way it crept through the grooves of his skin. The roots of weeds. It was just small spots, but unmistakable. And a loose-wrinkled shirt. Yellow or faded or not. It was a long time ago. The kettle screams on the stove. Tea leaves swirl in the chipped-china pot. An afternoon at home. Jenny asks if she can go play in the garden. Barely twelve. A tomboy. No interest in boys but that'll come soon enough. Go and play. Ma won't mind, Granny says it’s ok. Just like her mother, Jenny. All sports and bare knees. Jarred frogs and adventures. Comes from somewhere, I guess, but not me. I was never. But maybe that would have been better. He would ask me where things were. In my first real job as a library clerk I was full of poorly trained self-importance. Had I been a little...

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Author: C.L. Manion