It was her annual trip...
...when in an elevator she had traveled in over half her life, she pointed to the worn patch of wood and said, "This is still here."
After dinner the missing of mothers drifted into words.
I looked up.
What was still here was how certain nights still felt like Florence if she were a New York evening.
So we wandered and looked at what was still here.
Sunday Morning Links Plus MBIP Coming Attractions - *The term, “rock critic” has always mystified me and I don’t respect too many people who have “worked” in this profession. I really don’t believe that r...
12 hours ago