MOM
A truck coasts by, giving me a wide berth, then pulls over onto the shoulder. Tires crunch on the gravel. The driver’s door opens, and a nice, elderly gentleman climbs out.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“I’m going home,” I say. “Will you take me home?”
He nods and helps me into the cab. I set the book on my lap.
“Are you at St. Mary’s Assisted Living, or that other one, what is it, Sunshine Estates?” he asks.
“Neither. I live up the street here.” I point in the direction the truck is facing.
“Tell me the way,” he says.
I laugh. “Albert, you know the way.”
“Name’s George,” he says. Maybe it is a game Albert is playing. I humor him and tell him the directions. He pulls up to the curb outside a park. I close my eyes and see our old house. The kids playin
