was significantly lower than the others.
The walls were buttercup yellow.
Sunlight filtered through a window above the sink, warming the colours until the whole room seemed to radiate.
For a moment, I was eight years old again.
My mother stood near the stove, wearing her flowered apron.
My father was coming home from work through the screen door.
A jar of iced tea, dripping with condensation, sat on the counter.
The memory came back to me so suddenly that my throat tightened.
“Wendell.”
He stayed behind me.
“I couldn’t find the exact color you described.”
I touched the wall.
“That’s almost it.”
” Really ? “
“Very.”
He exhaled, almost relieved.
I looked around me again.
The opening between the kitchen and the living room had been widened.
No threshold was raised.
The electrical outlets had been moved higher up
