There is still the milk to get, and something sweet for later. I hesitate a moment, one foot on the curb, one hand on the car door frame. I look down the block toward the general store, then up again. There is a black bag on my shoulder that gives the appearance of a simple duffel, but has windows made of mesh. In it lies my once-strong cat, his now emaciated digits gripping the floor of the bag, his warm, light body snug on my hip as I stand looking at the tiny white clapboard house nestled between others like it but painted in different colors: pink, yellow, barn red. The covered porches are all shadowed and bleak in the five o’clock pitch; devoid of Adirondacks and swings, of potted ../Literary/Literary_Home.html

Fine Art

Erica-Lynn Gambino

Erica-Lynn Huberty