Lauren McGraw

The Fog Gathers

There is something strange about this house. It bends and warps with echoes of memory. The windows flicker like a movie reel, sunlight bouncing between the last few panicked leaves on the Autumn dressed oak in the backyard. I trace their shadows on the wall, pale jade, but it doesn't feel correct. A rooster crows, the sound of children's feet run past me. I turn to Mother. "I don't like this color,"