The most perfect night. Perfect is a superlative, so it can’t be topped. There’s no “more perfect,” or most perfect, it’s fine on its own, it’s perfect. The first really warm day when everything takes on a different feel. The… Read More ›
A new page on the calendar with its tongue hanging out to either tease or taunt us: our insignificance, a new getting through.
It’s always something, some locust or beetle or “killer bees.”
Dad retreats to the den while the chicken marinates, lights a stick of incense, and helps the dog get a bone out of the basket.
The rain fell so hard I stood in the doorway watching it, letting in the cool, clean air.
I remembered the smoked turkey we had in the meat locker from Easter and started fantasizing about eating a leg, just standing in the kitchen and taking it by hand.