Plastic Farm Animals
Kersten is delighted by how quickly we arrive at the trailhead, and after two dashes back to the car—Kersten to shed her sweater and I to retrieve my hair tie—we launch our Thursday morning adventure.
At first, I only hear it when I get up to pee at night, and it seems to come from the exhaust vent.
The pictures on our bedroom wall each contain at least one memory—a captured spirit or ghost, if you will.
Probing my raison d’etre.
I wake in the bottom of an abyss, filtered blue light licking at the edges of the ice cliffs above.