A Short Story
By jec young
My grandfather drinks glasses of milk which he forgets to finish. He forgets, too, where he leaves them.
We trail him around the house, collecting the misted white glasses and pouring them away.
I imagine in the corridors of his home, in the northern heat, there lies his endless breadcrumbs of variously curdled cheeses, that my mother will no doubt dutifully devour after his death.