Tuesday, April 26, 2016
My life is in pieces. Literally. Under the work bench in the garage, I dusted off six boxes of April's mosaic tools. Beside that, were piled stacks and stacks of square tiles. I remember her hunched over a project, working out there til the wee hours. I'd see her through the garage window - mosquito net on her head, forgotten cigarette burned down in the ashtray, CBC playing on the ghetto blaster. I still use that bug hat when I mow the lawn.