The calmness of that movement disturbed me more than anger would have.
One evening, I saw him carrying a sealed cardboard box toward his car.
“Doing some spring cleaning?” I asked.
He shifted the box in his arms.
“Marjorie has collected too many things over the years.”
“She’s attached to those things.”
“She gets overwhelmed easily now,” he said.
His voice remained polite, but it was clear the conversation was over.
Before I could move closer, he placed the box in his trunk and shut it.
A few days later, I finally saw Marjorie outside.
She stood beside her rose bushes in a thin nightgown, even though the morning air was cold enough to make me pull my sweater tighter.
I almost did not recognize her.
She looked smaller than before.
Her cheeks had hollowed, her skin appeared pale, and her shoulders curved forward as though remaining upright required all the strength she had.
