The Night Sky
Grandma Rose’s diary is in the bottom of my backpack, protected by a cloth and a Ziploc bag. After school, I hide in the back of the library, turn to where I left off.
August 6, 1967
I woke up today knowing we had to leave. Took the kids, went to a payphone, called Doug’s home number (no answer). Called the travel agency (no answer). Of course not, today is Sunday, who knew? Walked to Nob Hill. Doug might be at his old apartment. He wasn’t. Neither was his wife. Small mercies. Called Mother with my last dime; she hung up when she heard my voice. Housewife, my age, looked at us like we were gum on her shoe. Gave up. Came back. What does this world have to offer us?
Much banging and hollering in the garage. Lee’s angry. “We could put a full print shop down there. Instead th
