The snow and the dark wind, the impassable wastes of one’s backyard, the icy draft that leaks in under the front door tell you you have no place to go. You must sit down and allow the slightly old-fashioned language of self to drift in.
There aren’t many like him anymore, the handy, soft-spoken old ones, who still know how to farm, how to raise up a house you can live in, how to still-hunt a whitetail.
Most literary presses fade away when the founder leaves, so I cannot tell you how much it thrills me that AHP continues into the second generation.
People here stop and listen to children’s conversations. People here not only wait in line—say, at the bakery—but in that line come to agreement as to who rightly should go first—the frail old man, for instance, who has trouble with his legs, the mother who needs to hurry home & cook, the busboy from the café sent to buy more bread for a sudden crowd, and only then the couple, plenty of time, buying bread for dinner.
My dark-haired lover explained marriage was like an animal. “There’s a smell when it dies,” he said. I let my marriage trickle out.
Vast numbers of climate scientists are now grieving for the planet and humanity’s future, with some even describing their symptoms as a climate-change version of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD.