The dirt is moist, the grass puckers with water, and the orchard bulges buxom with apples. Eliza is at school, my Mom has the boys, and I’m with the girls. It’s not often we’re together, just the three of us.
We pick up Michelle and drive to the orchard because I want to remember the way they look at three. Not four. I want to still the laughter, the purity, their smiles and smirks, those warm brown eyes, the dimple in Sami’s cheek.
Into my cellar door