Elizabeth Sowden

Rain comes down in sheets on the day Edith comes home from the hospital. I watch as she slowly emerges from the passenger side of her niece’s car, the niece patiently holding her walker in place. Edith inches toward the house, bent under the niece’s umbrella. They’re both a blur of colors, like they’re trapped in a Monet. The back door clatters, and the kitchen light flips on.

My house is dark.