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Unspoken Loss
I remember the day well. It began with the smell of worms. I’m not actually sure if worms have a smell, but my 7-year-old mind was convinced they did. I suspect the fact that boys were gleefully harvesting their sickly pinkish-brown bodies and slinging them at us girls had something to do with that association.…
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Mine, Yours, Ours: What Resides Between Us?
Light filtered through the stain glass windows creating tall pillars of color on the adjacent wall and a kaleidoscopic pattern across her head. For most of our time together, she sat among us with her eyes cast downward. With magician like skill, her hands repeatedly swapped a concealed object between them while her shoulders remained…
