Demolition Before the Bloom

a heavy woven picnic basket.

My arms ached.

My white linen dress was sticking to my back.

The sun beat down relentlessly on the open expanse of the lawn, reflecting off the white dining tents.

“Stand up straight, Leo,” Richard snapped.

My ten-year-old son stiffened. He tugged at the collar of his rigid polo shirt.

“It’s scratching my neck, Dad,” Leo muttered.continue reading …