The Morning After
Her cup of Columbian Supremo cools atop of a crumpled copy of the Journal News, spread over the kitchen table like leaves across the lawn. She stands by the kitchen sink, inhales another drag on a half-smoked Marlboro, stares out the window, not seeing the cracked blacktop or the rust on the basketball hoop.
There’s no sign of yesterday’s overcooked prime ribs. No trace of aroma from the baked yams or steamed avocados. No echo of the scream, the slap.
Just her, another grandma. With a swollen right cheek.
Breeze scattering leaves up
Any Maple Street
Photograph from unsplash.com
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