“I’ll be back in town in late December. I’ve got to stop by to see you. You’ve been so much help.”
Her voice over the phone carried her decades, each a splintered-wood ship tossing on blue-waves’ ebbing persistence. Hoarse and smoky, she insisted.
She told me her daughter worked at the corner bar in town. All I had to do was to mention her name– and my drinks would be free.
“How old are you?” she asked, a question which was fifty questions, but really just one, and not the question asked.
I had to think on it.