The top row of empty stadium bleachers, rust ticking warm in the morning sun.
I had a paint swatch fan in my hand, one color circled: a gray-blue called "River Bottom."
My daughter was out on her road test, and I couldn't sit still in the house.
I walked up the old hill to the high school field, sat where I used to sit and watch my brother letter in football.
The mill whistle blew at nine. The river curled gray below. I remembered moving away, then coming back, like the water always does.
My phone buzzed. She passed. I heard her voice say, "Take the turn slow, just like you told me."
I looked at the swatch again. River Bottom. I chose that color years ago for a room she never slept in.
I folded the fan, walked home, and painted her ceiling instead. It didn't matter what side I was on.