Priest

I was, she said as she came around the corner of the house. I was about to tell you, she continued, as the sun shone in the front picture windows of the home. Mom won’t be home until August. The lights across the street reflected green yellow and red in the picture window. I said I’d take the children down to visit in April. Down the street the lights from the windows across from the gulley looked yellow and lonesome. I sat inside the mustang. The little hatchback. I tapped the steering wheel, and the windshield whipper came across the dry window. The music played anyway. She got in the car, and we drove down to Eric’s. Silence is a burden. They were emptying the house out into the front yard.