Cheryl–anne Millsap
Spokesman-Review

When I was a girl, an old blind woman lived in the faded white house, with peeling clapboards and a shaded, vine–covered porch, next door to me.

Mrs. Miller was small and wiry, and very old. Her thin white hair was always pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.

She lived with a little Chihuahua named Rocky – a strange and exotic pet at the time. The dog was ancient, barely able to walk on his thin matchstick legs, and he, too, was almost blind.

Sometimes, Mrs. Miller's son, John, lived with them. John was a loud and angry man who worked nights – when he worked – and either slept or watched game shows on the television all day. John drank. And when he was drunk, he wasn't very nice to his mother.

I was afraid of that house and everyone in it. To me, the old woman was a person of shadows, living a dark and shuttered life.

John, whose a...
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