Lying on his stomach after school, he is listening to old Bob Dylan records, propped up on his elbows. The carpet is musty with forgotten laundry, cookie crumbs, dust, modelling clay. Downstairs, the gentle clink of dishes and fizz of butter in a pan, the preparation of dinner.
Lace and shadows, tea laid on silver trays and the smell of incense lingered. She had made her attic into a nest, magpie-like—strange glints of old-fashioned jewellery, faded photographs. He couldn’t quite tell if she was serious, or if this … Continued
One jade plant, thriving just to spite me. Last watered 29 days ago. She bought it at one of those corner store florists on Fraser Street, because the owner said it would bring prosperity. I don’t know if it worked or not. Her money always seemed to turn into stationery or pussy willows or pointless knick-knacks.