by Tracy Royce
At first we thought the broken bathroom window was Davy’s most recent achievement. The neighbor’s kid was developing quite a throwing arm, as evidenced by the parade of projectiles he launched over the rusty fence bordering our yard. We looked around, but this time there was no ball, no rock. Recognition came rushing in when we entered the bedroom and discovered my jewelry boxes - empty, lids askew. I’d left my wedding ring at home that day to protect it from the oils and lotions I used in my work as a massage therapist. Thirty minutes later, the police officers strode about in their heavy boots, grinding shards of broken glass into our polished hardwood floors.
Tracy Royce lives and writes in Los Angeles.