Click the play button below to listen to Grady Chambers read
“Spring Garden Street.”
I had left her sitting on the front stoop and crossed the street to light my cigarette—April in the early evening, the pear trees with their arms full of white blossoms, comfortless as ghosts. She’d put her head down as she spoke on the phone for only a moment, but in that moment I had stepped to my right, leaving her line of vision, becoming slowly aware— and it surprised me—that I was growing frightened thinking how if she looked to find me where I’d stood just a second before, she would find nothing but her own reflection shown back to her in the window of a car: alone on the front steps, the month before we separated, though we didn’t know that then. Her dark hair blowing in the cold.
