But I am of the eternal diaspora. One of many wandering children dwelling in tents in this vast wilderness. Home is a memory that I can’t remember. Rust and decay have eaten away at its core and corrupted its foundations.
They wheeled me down to pre-op around 4pm on Thursday. I was so nervous that my pulse jumped from 97 to 123 while they were taking my vitals. I cried quite a bit, and hated myself for it, especially since the tears were visible on my cheeks during transport. I was also trembling, because I... Continue Reading →
The first children's book I received from Plough Publishing was Charlie the Tramp by Russell and Lillian Hoban. They sent it to me bundled up in a red bandana, as though the book itself had been a traveler and needed a place to stay. It was an adorable read about a little beaver named Charlie... Continue Reading →
Home is… Home is a cup of chamomile tea a fuzzy blanket a classic novel oversized sweat pants your t-shirt Home is fresh homemade bread eggs, sunny side up, in bed Champions League Football Mythbusters reruns Lord of the Rings Legos Home is waking up beside you a warm embrace a goodnight kiss two-day stubble... Continue Reading →