It’s hot, one of those sultry steamy days in the south where the sun caresses rather than sears.
The neighbor boy ambles up the street, dressed in long dark jeans and a blue thermal jacket zipped to his throat, like a turtle ready to disappear. He smiles shyly as he passes. Like his parents and seven siblings, he won’t speak to AnneMarie unless forced, not anymore. The world has become “them” and “us.” Continue reading