It seems to her that humans have only one spring, one summer, one fall, and if they’re lucky — or not, depending on your perspective — one winter.
One hundred and twenty hours after my mother took her last breath, we gathered around a deep hole and covered her casket in roses.
The water shimmers baby blue beneath a blushing pink sky and it seems Bob and I are the only people on earth.
The moist air is already sticking to your arms at 7:00 AM, the pores in your armpits twitching like a horse in a starting gate.
We opened the door and peered in at what had once been a hub of activity, our old kitchen, all tore up and abandoned.