There’s something about him, how he travels through the galaxy alone…
My banshee daughter is attacking the day.
The more I hold my cow, the more indifferent she is.
Do not walk away from this burgeoning hope of heat and dryness.
I think it’s a great honor to be part of a new and thriving literary movement.
Handing me the rope, she suggested I call him Winter, a reminder of what he’d endured.
And the painful inadequacy of this hangs in the car, the pretense that this briefest of visits home will provide some solution, some respite for one or other of them.
But we aren’t that gullible. We can tell a fake.
The pandemic hasn’t made things easier.
She’s run out of candy hearts. It had to happen sometime; a box only holds so much.