A cool wind chills my hands as I crawl out of my car, looking towards the brick walkway that leads to my mothers home. I open a creaky door (that may not shut properly, after which my father will go grab a cleaver from the kitchen [because my great-grandmother hides the hammer in her bedroom] and use the blunt side to re) to a gaudy artists
(
Read more... )
Comments 1
Reply
Leave a comment