Finally, I see you. Weathered black, white shades of brown. I weep from longing. You are eighteen with furrowed brow wearing your Sunday best. It’s Accomack County graduation day 1935. Did you know your arms, legs crossed, could not shield you from past, present, future tense? Did you know your marriage ends…
I do not buy those words, sacred and secular, They’ve rent the world in two. They take the magic from how a speck of dust catches the light Or how the cadence of footfall is poetry. They make too much of church casseroles that do not feed the multitudes. Blind adult eyes Miss the…
Cancer grows in odd places and moves in unseen ways. A big mass in his chest. A tiny spot in his spine. The bad, old cells clumping together to attack and destroy. In the beginning, death seems like the biggest and only potential thief. You do not yet realize that cancer will steal his hair…