This time of year is like the hub of a generational spinning wheel, the spokes and rim expanding ever outward: A timeless area into where I slide among vaporous memories of the older folk like ancestral spirits who were kind and supportive but toward whom I was insufficiently grateful and loving in return.
This time of year is like the hub of a generational spinning wheel, the spokes and rim expanding ever outward: A timeless area into where I slide among vaporous memories of the older folk like ancestral spirits who were kind and supportive but toward whom I was insufficiently grateful and loving in return.