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.
Without you - I am at a loss. While doing laundry last night, I noticed something had gone missing. Behold, Sock Mountain! But something is not right. And, here is the p...
16 hours ago