You Are What You Love

Susan looked over his shoulder at the city while hanging thirty stories off the ground. She shook her head at the familiar grip in her chest, and told herself that she was not having a heart attack as she drew her damp cloth across another window pane. She was getting too old for this, but these windows would not wash themselves.

Thirty stories down, Frank held his father’s big hand in his small one, and looked up. There, against the morning’s glare bouncing off the building was the best window washer in the world. His mom.