2005 - Vol. 2, Issue 4

I stared at June as she slowly pushed Willy out into the sun-drenched playground. Willy sprawled on his stomach on his reclining wheelchair, grinning like an idiot over his shoulder at the nurse. He was 12, but he looked like a six–year–old stick. I'd turn nine at the end of August, and I'd never seen anybody as skinny as him.

I couldn't help staring at June after what Willy had said about her. He told me to watch how she moved back and forth and to pay attention to her bottom. He said that was one of the most important parts. Her bottom wasn't like the other nurses, and she wasn't fat and loud like the other ones. The ones that would hover over me in bed, grinning at me, touching my face. They all wanted to take me home with them, and that was scary. June never said those things; she just smiled all the time.

"What're you looking at, Josh?"

put her nightgown on the bed.
Put her housecoat and slippers, her hairbrush
and her chargecards on the thick white spread.
She put her degree in home economics,
the cooking classes she used to teach,
the college award she wanted to give back—
she took her first romance, her three children,
her dead mother's photograph,
her years of service in the National Council