Her voice lifts when I tell her who’s calling. We chat a bit about the pitiful, gray rain that was supposed to be a full-on blizzard.
I explain that I need her help finding a document for the bank. “They can’t open the account without it.”
“There’s a file cabinet I could check,” she offers.
I say, “No rush,” though the bank would disagree. I picture her hair draping against her neck, and her small hands with their silver, spinning rings. I imagine us searching the dim attic together in thoughtful silence, the quiet stacks of books keeping my secret.
Cynthia Hamill 