Fiction | July 25, 2017

The photos arrived at all hours, nearly always catching Sandra by surprise. She might be sorting through her mother’s things when the phone burbled with another text, or trying to weed the riotous mint from her myrtle beds, or dozing in defeat on the sunroom daybed, the afternoon having gotten away from her. Without her mother in the house it was often too quiet, but these were not interruptions she welcomed. Vrrrt, the intrusive little messenger would trill, and she’d know that another photo was waiting, or three, or ten, or even a bit of rocky video filmed as the sender wove down cobbled lanes or stepped over clods in vineyard rows.

This story is not currently available online.


If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.