(Originally written August 17, 2017) It rained for a week after Caryn died. Memory is a funny thing and can easily be manipulated to suit the stories that we want to tell, so maybe I am wrong, but I remember it as a soft rain, the kind of rain that you can stand under and… Continue reading The Breaking
The stones in the middle of the river.
I pay attention to the sky more than I used to. For a long time now, I've seen without seeing. When I tell people I feel like I'm just waking up - this is what I mean. The cotton candy edges of clouds float across the ombre blue sky. To my left is light Robin… Continue reading The stones in the middle of the river.