Behind the Venue, My Husband Handed Me a Scrapbook Pulled From the Dumpster

everything I knew about Barbara Matthews.

“Careful, honey,” I told her when she adjusted the lid on the bin. “We don’t want anything to bend.”

“I know,” she said, furrowing her brow the way she had since she was a toddler, that expression of small-scale serious concentration that I would remember long after everything else about this particular morning continue reading …