Marcus’s shift changed and he was home for dinners. The dinners were noisy. Vera came to two of them and left before the boy’s bedtime fight. Bedtime fights were a family. She had one. She did not have to referee. Keisha walked her to the car. The car started. Vera said the rail is holding. Keisha said Marcus checks it. Checking was love in a tool. Vera nodded. The nod was their old dialect and it still worked. She drove the ordinary way. The parlor’s street was not on it. She had arranged her errands so. Arrangement was a tax she no longer felt as a tax. It was a route. Routes were allowed to be chosen.
Nadine’s window office had a plant Loretta brought. Nadine did not want a metaphor. She watered it anyway. It died. She did not replace it. Dead plants were not signs. They were schedules missed. She missed a schedule and corrected it by not pretending. The shelf box stayed. A new coworker asked about a photo on her desk. There was no photo. Nadine said I don’t keep them here. Here was work. Work was the room that did not know. She protected the room. Protection was the manners she had left. Vera’s name rang once in a month, then once in a season. Seasons were progress. She did not mark them. Marking was a shrine. She walked the park. The dog, or a dog, caught the ball. She said good dog, not loud. A owner nodded. Nodding was a city dialect. She went home. Eggs. The spine held.
Vera donated the last of the church shirts in a bag Keisha held open. The bag was light. Light was strange. He had worn the shirts on Sundays after church, the part of Sunday that was real. The other part had been a coat in a row. Vera said both. Keisha said both. They put the bag in the car. The car was just a car. They drove to the different church. A woman took the bag and said bless you. Vera said thank you. Thank you was a lid she still used. It fit a donation. It had not fit a parlor. Context was everything. She was learning context. The learning was late. Late was still a life.