Today I bought a book I don't plan to read. I know, all you minimalists and declutterers out there are gasping in horror, but look--I'm a Taurus. I like my stuff. Even stuff that doesn't spark joy. The book in question is Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott. I must have read it twenty times … Continue reading Stuff and Things
“I will go, if you ask it.” The lantern is turned down low. Its dim light pools on the table, glints off the brandy glass dangling from your fingers. I wish I could see your face. “No.” Your voice drifts out of the shadows, gentle as rain. “Stay.”
"On my word." The Admiral spoke without rancor. “Yes, ma’am.” My hand hovered above the console. The bridge was silent; everyone was waiting for me. This could start the end of everything. “Go,” she said. I pushed the button.
Growing up, my mother was the one who decorated my room. She picked out the furniture; she made my curtains (to match my sheets). She wouldn’t let me paint the walls. It was a small room, maybe ten feet by ten feet, with just enough room for: One iron-framed brass bed (twin) One wide bureau … Continue reading What we keep
When I was eight I locked the wind in a box. It didn’t weigh much, made no noise if I shook the box, and looked rather a lot like a handful of dandelion fluff. I’d toss a pinch into the air and a breeze would whisper secrets in my ear. Other kids had soccer trophies … Continue reading Catching wind