When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.
Winter Solstice
We drive in the darkpast the open fieldsinto the neighborhood:Millions of lights on the housesin the trees—the world a-twinkle with hopewhile overhead a...
Street Scene
Early evening heat rises frompavements, from cement and asphalt,carrying a scent slightly sour,slightly acrid—oily and tar-like.
Outside the café, beyond its fenced-intables, a large...
