In this story, a boy in love
with detective fiction confronts
stovetop clues to his grandmother’s
new-found forgetfulness. He can’t
believe the woman who taught him
to read to be caught in time’s undertow.
Sherlocking through the basement
together, flashlight in hand,
no one knows which way to the fuse box.
Stormy nights like these he stops
reading and wonders, maybe the very same
thing as his grandmother does:
Where did my father go?
Who made this mess for me to clean up?
Why doesn’t Dr. Watson kick down the door?
Leave a Reply