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

frame. The memory book, set in the center, the ribbon dark and limp but the cover intact.

Coffee grounds clung to some edges. A wilted petal had attached itself to the memory book’s cover. A tea stain marked the lower corner.

David stepped back and looked at his mother.

“Every time Sarah asked me to consider that something was wrong,” he said, “I told continue reading …