From my point of view the world has no horizon, a person is known by her feet, the road is a slow rolling river of dust.
Read MoreWhen I met her, she was sitting in a rocking chair on a front stoop just big enough for her chair, a pot of red geraniums, a mat that did not say welcome, and me.
Read MoreHere are the things I need to be ready: Boots that fit, Socks that give the boots a little room for error…
Read MoreHer hands speak. The skin is smooth, even at her age, polished by time and care.
Read MoreEmpty. The chamber in front of me was as empty as anything ever has been.
Read MoreShe slumped, arms crossed under her forehead, leaning on the lip of the water vessel.
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