AT THE END OF THE DAY, outstretched in the Eames chair, a glass of white wine beside her, her leather journal open on her lap, her fountain pen uncapped, Penny writes:
A hand searches for another hand, not knowing it is already full.
She looks up. Ali is standing in the doorway, dressed in her flowered pajamas. Her eyes are soft and needy. Her face is vulnerable once more.
Penny puts aside her pen and notebook.
Ali enters the room. She sits on a chair a few feet from her mother, turned away from the built-in desk. She draws her knees up to her chest.
“What is it, sweetie?”
Penny leans forward, trying to get as close to her daughter as possible. Thinking that love has a memory, too. It knows how to come home.