Susan Slotnick: What was to come

How could I have known what was to come the day the drive over the mountain, through the Hudson Valley byways, past acid-green trees with leaves by the thousands, each no bigger than a housefly, would herald the onset of a springtime of fear?

It was a day to be outside, smelling air still tinged by cold but promising the season to come, a season I took for granted would mean new life. Had I known I would be spending the next many months inside, I might have made a better choice than to go to a casino, where . . .


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