by Sandra Anfang
The summer had started out well enough, he thought. That was months before he felt the tug in his groin that made him think of elves pulling cables through miniature shackles. He gazed at the calendar and remembered the Independence Days of his youth. In a basement trunk lay the VFW cap he had worn in the parade. He felt Mary’s eyes watching him from the blanket, eyes that swam with love or need or a kind of desperate loyalty. Just last week, he’d gathered the last of the succulent orange globes from the persimmon tree, the one she’d planted on their last Christmas together.
Sandra Anfang moved from the Golden State to Las Vegas where she writes, paints, and admires the flora and fauna of the desert.
