you're reading a book when, two pages before chapter sixteen, it is torn from your hands and thrown into a lake. when you retrieve it the pages are sopping wet - some ripped, others matted together, each one unreadable.
through the quiet, moonlit, summer night, I can hear a song floating out of the kitchen window, one from my daughters' favourite musical - something about memory. beside me, my dad coughs and stands up.
he walks toward the edge of the orchard bordering the lawn. I follow him and arrive as he’s polishing an apple on his shirt.
“so Tom, how’s the orchard going?” he asks, taking a bite.