shrine
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Grandmother’s Farmhouse
After she died,grandmother's farmhouse–without anyone's intending it–evolved into a shrine,a monument to our lost history. Untouched, year upon year,it dusted over,much like, every week,the oak table that anchored the kitchendusted over with flour on baking day–only everywhere now–thick on painted window… Continue reading
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The Shinbone of our Lord
Last night, behind loose bricks in the far corner of the basement, I found a long, package of crumbling paper. I unwrapped it on the workbench, underneath the fluorescent fixture hanging by chains from cobwebby rafters. It was a bone–a leg… Continue reading