3 a.m. and the chirp ... chirp ... chirp ... persists, like a slow drip from a faucet, niggling my drowsy brain until I recognize the smoke alarm battery’s death poem. Rising like Lazarus, I get the ladder from the garage, climb to the ceiling, and pull out the battery while my husband sleeps on.
a metaphor
for the rest of my life
crescent moon
Bio: Cynthia Anderson
