Do you remember how I’d walk near you on a Saturday morning? There was a grey drizzle and puddles growing all around, sometimes even a stream forming from the hillside and out the old black tube. I don’t remember rain jackets, but a grey sweatshirt that would slowly soak across the morning. I’d trace…
Rachel’s email about ending Kindred arrived four days into the new year. She described both the sadness of farewell and “yielding to a natural rhythm; this organic living thing is coming to the end of its life, and we will bear witness to its passing as we have borne witness to its years of flourishing.”…
I’m sitting on the porch of hundred-year-old officers’ quarters looking out over grass and trees and, in the distance, Crockett Lake and the salt water of Admiralty Bay. Two juvenile deer graze watchfully a few yards away, while red-breasted robins twitter in the cedars, and a couple of daffodils loll their yellow heads in the…
the air is heavy like the breath you blew across my ear to tell me that moss grows on the stoplight where I walk in sneakers whose holes allow the water to seep in, past trees dripping with lichen the rainforest isn’t far from the valley between volcanoes, fertile that’s how you see me, I…
I am a hoarder of sentiment and nothing stirs that up and smacks you across the face quite like the act of packing for a move, or in this case, a renovation. I managed to purge a box of gift receipts from our wedding 13 years ago along with a stack of insurance packets given…
Kindred 