All tagged Elizabeth Sowden
The baby’s mother went to nurse her and found her bassinet full of bits of glass, sparkling around her head like a halo. Panic stricken, the mother swept up all the crystals into her cupped hand, heart pounding, wondering how the glass ended up there—had a burglar broken in?
Three weeks ago, the letter came in the mail. Notice of Termination of Utilities. I turned the faucet on the sink and no water came out. I poked my finger in and swirled it around, feeling the inside. It was damp and rough, and it left my finger covered in flecks of rust. I stacked the letter on top of all the other ones that said Final Notice. The letters date back to March, when my mom left.
Her hands are raw from canning. Yesterday she canned peaches, today corn. The gleaming jars of peaches line the wall—six quarts of pinkish peach halves and eight pints of jam.