To my dear reader, Forgive me for discussing the seasons again—truthfully, it’s how I make small talk. It feels necessary as I write this in
ART BY BY ANNICA GROTE This summer, I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey for the first time. The air was tepidly held by the hills
Dearest Reader, As we approach November, the incoming winter announces herself with her usual unsympathetic dryness and affectionate rouging of noses. As a Californian implant
I was a poor sleeper from the start. Until I was seven years old, I slept in the same room as my parents and younger sister, not for lack of space, but because I wanted to. I recall waking often, excluded from the scene of a room that was snoring in harmonious tension with its own silence, disappointed in myself for failing to comply with such an ordinary task.
Looking backwards, twisted away from Mom hunched over the wheel in stiff embrace,
Some miles away from Burlington and back to Middlebury—
Fireworks. (Had they planned it all along?)
We squirm in the nighttime humidity only August knows.
Is the sweet caramel wail of a cello,not quite in this hallway but maybe on the second floor.Heavy step on my way to cast my
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