We don’t write about such things. The events that move us in the real world are too mundane for that. I step away from the norm to give my account.
I’ve sent the four limos away and stand in my best blue suit and black wool coat, flanked by two strong nephews who asked permission to remain with me at a time when polite society withdraws. It’s January 29th, yet hundreds of stale, wind-blown Christmas wreaths remain staked to the ground in long, precise rows. The wind gusts against our fresh displays of pink and lavender roses. How they cut such a clean rectangle into the ground, I don’t know. Continue reading