By Jennifer Savage
Yesterday I walked into the kitchen past a muddy stream of something on the floor. Just as I was trying to figure out what it was I saw a strange object in the kitchen sink. Covered in mud and dripping wet, one of Eliza’s new cleats lay there with the lunch dishes. I stood there for a second wondering how, why? About that time she walked through the room wearing her camos and a black, sleeveless basketball jersey with the number 21 across the front. Her hair was nearly in dreads from three days of having the flu and her eyes were red, her nose running. She had one tennis shoe on and had left the other in the backyard where the sun shone bright and high for the first time since anyone around here could remember.
“Did you? Is this your cleat?” I said. “Were you washing it off?”
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