The white house: crumbs on the table, kids fighting over a bag of Wonder bread.
It was wonderful, the first place the sun hit every day, so that squares of light turned the room to lemon gold.
And so I drove in that field in the summer-evening light, Steven shouting directions as I lurched through the ruts, bucking, stalling, starting up again with gear-grinding noises.
We'd sail up and down the aisles of DeMattia's Food Store, picking and choosing: ravioli, and a pink can of shredded tuna for Henry.
