I rose before the sun and sat up in an old bed, worn springs creaking a wretched protest. The painted metal of the rail beneath my hand was chipped and scarred from decades of indelicate use. My mother slept soundly on the bunk below me, her sturdy body a familiar presence beneath blankets that smelled like strangers.

I marveled at the darkness, ( Read more... )

Someone who read my

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There is a rocking chair in the corner of my daughter’s bedroom. The chair is heavy, stained a chestnut brown, and the lacquer on the arms has worn dull from decades of sleepy children sliding into their embrace at bedtime. My grandmother gave it to my mom and dad as a wedding present.

Gramma Morgan moved in with my parents before I was born, and ( Read more... )