Rolling Hills Estates retirement community, July 1971
When Maggie noticed the coatrack inviting her to dance, she finally decided she’d been alone in the house too long. She had not slept well since Harold died. Nine months in a home empty of his presence had begun to play tricks with her senses. The cement of habits and routines, built over fifty years together, had started to crumble. Like stubborn blades of grass that reclaim abandoned highways, another self tugged from the shadows in the corners, from behind each frame.
For the rest of the story, visit Amarillo Bay…
k.m. huber writes 
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