I grew up in the American West and reside here, still. In the West, story is the amniotic fluid from which we are thrust. We may not later recognize its taste or scent or syrupy weight in our lungs, but neither are we inclined to distinguish the acrid pine in the...
Her shoulders were like poured cream, translucent, the blue veins swimming just underneath. The sharp little bones a magnificent scaffolding. I always used to kiss her on her shoulder. When she got older, I just knew she’d shrug me off, roll her eyes and say “Mom” in...
