I drove past the house and its paint was falling like the skin of onions fully cured. It probably would have sounded like it, too, had I stopped to remember, had I placed it between fore and thumb, squeezing—or not, its strength no match for even the approach—and I thought about death. When cut off from the source will I unravel, too, and crumble in this way, my layers releasing, departing , moving farther away from me and closer to something else?
Fo(u)nd Memories is now a published short story collection! To read the full story, order a copy here.