Lord, it was hot for this time of year. Always near November, always the same creaking tree branches, the same baked ground, the same gray border of time. It was always the same month in his mind. All other time was like sticking your head in a pool of murky water. This was the only time that was real, the only time that really mattered.
“I miss you, son,” he said again. “Fifty-seven years, and I still miss you.”
Excerpt from Ordinary Handsome. Available at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P46ZPA0
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