I still search on the bookshelf as if retrieving a lost child, a missing parent with just the right spell. How grateful I am you are still standing, though I might find you elsewhere, on some screen. I long to see your face and feel your spine, some proof that all my fermented sorrows have... Continue Reading →

After seventy-three rejections, one for each day of summer gone by, I know what the phrase means— the absence of a human voice. But to me it’s as comforting as a Philip Glass movement, as maddening as the cricket that keeps my seven-year-old awake, hidden in the rose bush, giving us nothing but unanswered envy.