Apple Butter
Original Fiction by
Patricia Crisafulli
What mattered now was using those jars one more time, to send them off full instead of thrown away empty.
What mattered now was using those jars one more time, to send them off full instead of thrown away empty.
T he old man dressed like a silent film star: black and white suit, shiny shoes, a cane, and even a top hat. The hat sat on the bench and the cane leaned against the back of it. His head of curly white hair moved like a Bobblehead doll.
G rowing up, I was often told by my parents that I have a guardian angel. The only proof needed was my harrowing birth.
Everything he’d loved he had to sacrifice until he had nothing but stones.
“This pain, that runs so deep, shows me the height of the love we once shared.”