After the mall shooting my mother watched Clare Watkins, our neighbor with the denim blue eyes. Clare, a survivor, became reclusive. Mom watched Clare’s chubby body go thin, watched her calmness become twitchiness. The only routine Clare kept was drinking a cup of coffee in her kitchen’s nook.
Mom said, “If I don’t see Clare at the bay window sipping her morning Joe, I’ll know she quit being a survivor.”
Years later, Clare delivered a homemade strawberry cream pie for mom’s birthday with one piece missing about the size of a baby’s footprint.
“Poison test,” Clare claimed.
“Progress,” mom said.
Mom said, “If I don’t see Clare at the bay window sipping her morning Joe, I’ll know she quit being a survivor.”
Years later, Clare delivered a homemade strawberry cream pie for mom’s birthday with one piece missing about the size of a baby’s footprint.
“Poison test,” Clare claimed.
“Progress,” mom said.
