Our Land, My Campfire
She builds on my land like she already belongs there. I try to name us. She refuses.
Read more →Maker – Writer – Thinker
She builds on my land like she already belongs there. I try to name us. She refuses.
Read more →In Second Life, grief becomes a rule: don’t attach, don’t trust—until one message breaks every rule.
Read more →A long, ordinary day ends with a login—into a world that isn’t real, and a person who won’t leave my mind.
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read There was another boat story — smaller than the hurricane, smaller than the crowds at Twin Rivers — but more important to me because it was private. I told Micky I…
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read It must have been a few years after Hurricane Carol — maybe it even started the very next summer, once the floodwater dried up and the boat had stopped being a…
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read The boat my father built in the basement didn’t just want to be a boat. It wanted to be a character. And this character still had more stories to tell. The…
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read I must have been about four years old, because I know this happened before 1954 — the year Hurricane Carol arrived and turned a lot of things upside-down, including that very…
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read I don’t remember the exact words anymore. Decades blur edges. But the feeling is still sharp and steady, like a thread pulling through cloth. What follows isn’t literal transcription — it…
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read The Time Room didn’t end when the exhibition closed. For me, it ended — or maybe began — with that woman and her granddaughter. With the way memory entered the room…
Read more →Your Choice: Listen or Read I built the table to look older than it was — the kind of table that might have belonged to a serious household, where people once gathered to read or argue…
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