One for every year since Christ jumbled inside. My wife's mother tightens her robe. Calcium clouds hug the blue. Through the window a real lake and a bluer sky beckon. Oh that old thing,'' she whispers.
Fragments pour from the open box.
Easy parts join at the corners. We work inward from there. The box is full of it. She plows gray dust with a finger shifting strands of fallen hair. House by house, hour by hour here a brick chimney stack, there a yellow flower pot spied among bits of fractured lake and sky loose on the kitchen table.