My Mother Texted That I Was Locked Out, but By Morning I Had Made a Few Calls

the first morning, listening to the echo of my own footsteps, and I thought about my grandfather in that photograph, grease under his fingernails, tired eyes bright with something genuine. Then I rolled up my sleeves.

The work took months. I scraped peeling paint off the walls until my shoulders ached, then rolled on a clean white that made the space continue reading …