Charlie stood on the porch waving. Well-done Charlie, the oldest son, the abider, the Oak Park of the family, the village closest to their father, who was Chicago itself.
I can only see the top of my daughter’s head from where I sit. She is cuddled up to her furry orange pillow, her hair pulled into a wobbly knot.
“I heard you talking to Alena,” I say.
“Yes.” She tosses on the narrow couch.