The clocks fly past the tablecloth sticky with syrup, past the beds rumpled as daisies, past the Mason jars filled with pearls and rice, to perch at the windowsills. You can hold your breath but it’s already too late—the daffodils by the foundation have laid down their filmy trumpets while dandelions overtook the field. Grandfather and grandmother have stepped back into their portraits—one stands in the center of the team, holding the championship basketball, the other sits at a little wooden desk, smiling and gripping her pencil.

Bio: Kathleen McGookey