I Talk to the Radio When the House Is Quiet
Public radio in the kitchen. Not for news. For voices. The house is quiet in a way that used to feel peaceful and now sometimes feels like a held breath. I a...
#memoir
The Library Book Was Due in 2019
I found a novel in the coat pocket I have not worn since before the pandemic. Due date stamped 2019. The fine is probably astronomical. I returned it anyway....
Rain on the Lower Field and No One to Tell
It rained all morning on the lower field. Too wet to cut. I stood at the window with second breakfast and thought about telling someone. Michael would have n...
The Lambing Season That Didn't Need Me
Lambing season, and my knees are not what they were. My son did the night checks. I sat by the range with tea, listening to his boots in the yard, feeling us...
The Grocery List Is the Last Honest Document I Write
I wrote milk on the list, crossed it out when I remembered the half carton in the fridge, then wrote milk again an hour later. This is my literary life now:...
Forty Years of Doing It Badly
A farmer reflects on October light, limping ewes, and why forty years of hard-won knowledge cannot be handed over a cup of coffee.