Kneeling on the cold stone hearth each morning, facing yesterday’s ashes cold and gray as death, ignites a necessary humility. Today’s fire must be made from what lies at hand – life and heat coaxed from pages of an old newspaper, ...
(this is the view out the front of our house, the old garage I’m writing about is out back) My oldest son runs shouting into the house, eyes round like dinner plates. “We found an opening that leads underground!” he exclaims and I picture a doorway...
Riding the old yellow Cub Cadet, I mow long rectangles around the back fields. Out in the garden, between me and the road, my husband works with the kids, tying short, thick tomato plants to their stakes with long strips of cotton. From where I sit, rattling and...
In the morning, after the twins chug their milk and the heavy wet diapers of the night before are deposited in the already overflowing trash, I sit in the corner of the couch with Isaiah to look at a book. We flip through the pages of a National Geographic...
Kneeling on the dirty living room rug, the twins swarm and climb on my back, my legs, my shoulders. With focused determination I slowly piece together a ridiculously complicated floor puzzle. Over time a large smiling farmer perches happily atop a John Deere...
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