top of page
The cut was not straight. None of them were, really, but the last was as screwy as a slinky. Birch leaves laid on the floor next to her rusted sewing needles and grandchildren’s heads—trimmed off like an amateur landscaper. Even after setting the scissors down, her hands quaked terribly. Another family photo was ruined. She rubbed her eyes after putting her thick-lensed, wire-rimmed glasses down next to an unfinished crossword puzzle. She would have to call the photo center again, but decided against it. Scrapbooking simply became the next joy her old age stripped away.
bottom of page