A neighbor driving by, slows, stops. Bids good morning, laughs and questions the incongruity of what I carry to the shop; a laptop, hammer, jug of wine.
The hammer used to hang a mirror in the house, the gallon jug of wine line-marked for water for the coffeepot. The laptop, I explain, is part of me. He waves and drives away as the buzz of leafblowers ring the morning call to service.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology