Day: March 25, 2025

In nineteen thirty-something, between The Depression and World War II, Dad built a small box, not big enough to call a chest or locker, from scraps of pine board, nailed together and screwed down with unnecessarily heavy hinges. He
On occasion, this distant memory surfaces at curious moments. I’m unsure why. However random and peculiar, I suppose the event over fifty years ago had some significance for my young mind. One night when I was six or seven,
“Man, if that ol’ porch rocker could talk . . . … What a tale of tails it could tell!” Over seventy-five year’s worth of tales, that’s what. There’s Arvie’s arse and Cowboy’s keister, Hank’s heinie, Bill’s bum, Carolyn’s
Beneath my surface, she lingered like a tumor, crawling on bruised knees along bones and ligaments. I threw myself down the stairs to dislodge her. Now she emerges – a tiny pink girl whose neck is purpling, swathed round

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