Parent and Child

The Salt Stain

The zipper teeth part with a dry scrape. I watch her hands pull the fabric taut, then let go. The duffel bag slumps against the sofa cushions, a heavy, wet shape that refuses to bounce back. She reaches in, fingers disappearing into the dark opening. When she…

The Count

Ingrid comes in on soft shoes, the way they teach them to, and checks the bag on its pole and the numbers on the little screen that speak for our father now that he mostly can't. The window behind her has gone white. Not bright white, not sky. Fog, thick…