The Year of the Glendas

Italiks/October 2025

That autumn the sun set earlier than any I remembered. 

The trees lining the road home closed in, crowding my moving car. A tunnel. My eyes strained into the cones of headlights before me. 

As soon as I crossed the threshold, the babysitter sprung from the living room chair, mumbling goodbye, rushing into the bourgeoning  night.

I tended to get out of work late. There was always something else to do.

My shrink might have said, “Or maybe you’re avoiding home?”

I shrugged out of my coat, draping it on a closet hanger, crossed the still-sparse living room. 

I hadn’t had time to replace the items Scott took when he left.  

Parker’s voice drifted from his room. 

I knew who he was talking to, and it wasn’t me. 

Still, I filled his doorway. 

“I’m home, honey,” I said. 

“Hi,” he said. 

Glenda’s multicolored lights blinked in the evening haze, awaiting his next question, request, command, whatever. 

He glared me into the hall. 

“She’s gone, Glenda,” he said.  

I turned to my own room, showered, brushed teeth, read in bed.

Parker did not say, “Good night, Mommy.” 

He said, “Good night, Glenda.

Eventually, the finger of light reaching across the hall relented.