No. 8 · Crossroads
On the River
My brother and I float in shiny, black inner-tubes down the Shenandoah River. Dragonflies hover like helicopters. Willows cast their branches into the shallows like fishermen.…
No. 8 · CrossroadsRaking
Swish swish. Scratch scratch. My father and I rake the grey Sunday away into a mountain of leaves. It’s no Blue Ridge Mountain but yellow and…
No. 9 · TracksMorning Glory: Parkinsons
As a girl, I used to listen to my father vocalizing in the curve of the piano, balancing lightly on his toes. I’d crouch below and…