by Elizabeth Westmark
Dear Max,
I’ve reached that stage of life where my sins of omission far outweigh my sins of commission.
The old preacher who befriended you in that tiny town where you were living led us to the small frame house by the railroad tracks.
The dilapidated wooden swing on the porch whispered of better times. We slowly followed the reverend to the front door. He jiggled the key and twisted the loose knob, pushing on the humidity-swollen door until it opened.
Collectively taking a deep breath, we stepped over the threshold.
Oh, dear God, so this is how you were living.
junk 