My hands have blisters in the most incredible places. The tip of my pinky, the edge of my palm, along my heart line, two in the moon of my index. Each has a name, like constellations: the mark of the hoe the scythe the pickaxe the wheelbarrow the shovel. My lover is dismayed. He cups …
Nostalgia
Aren’t memories grand? Life is made of both the big milestones and the tiny pebbles under our feet.