Katy, until your death feels real to me;
I will chase your ghosts on google, search out your face in every pixel, pocket the sparks your wit threw into the corners.
To my Mother on her 50th year
It is as if you have lived five times over, moving from mountain to mountain, carrying our hearts on top of your own.
That new year smell
You can rewrite your script at any time but there’s just something about new years and Mondays that import impetus and gravitas to reinventions.