You know deep in your bones that what he is thinking or doing or feeling or chasing is going to land him in deep guano sooner or later.

After the pies are baked, they pop right out – like mini springform pans without the spring. They are the cutest ever.

There is apple pie in the sunshine with apples from our own tree, and there is the radiant face of a child buried in corn.

Sadness lies abed of a morning with a question mark, and anger turns the viewpoint red, tips over tables, but fear sits in the corners…

I am relieved to find, in the middle of my grief, that this wound is cleaner because I didn’t insist that he save me out of it.