“Dad’s been gone for eight years, Mom.” She stood and went to the doorway. “I think he’s in the living room. He just went down to smoke.” 

“I can’t remember anything. I’m so confused,” she said. She looked around at everything unfamiliar. The window with its slip of linen curtain. The painting of our flat on Union Street. The desk with the knock-off Chippendale chair. 

WHERE’S FRANK? BY GINNY HORTON

34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 69

When my mother came to live with me, after she fell and broke …

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