The New House
It was a sunny day when the dam was finished. We stood vigil as the water rose over the house down below.
“I’m sorry, Dad. We fought so hard, too.”
I hugged her. “It’ll stay preserved down there, six generations of memories, just under the surface.”
My voice quavered, and she buried her head in my old shoulder and cried.
You have a new house. On a lake. You lucky old fart.
I breathed—the mellow scent of lilacs mixing with the loud aroma of fresh paint—and let the bitterness go, to dance with the sparkles on the water.
The Green-Walled Tower 