Walking into the smell of old wounds, something about my grandmother’s bedroom always kept me from there—the perfume once animal golden now rancid & dark as whiskey. Lace- medallioned, doilies marking time turned to loss
After your father gets lost for the third time, you get angry because he won’t answer his phone. Part of me wants him to stay lost. God, what has stolen my generosity?
I had driven to Nashua to look for farmhouses. I was researching abandoned farmhouses and wanted to find a part of New Hampshire with both rural and urban poverty.
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