"...
Oh, this world has more
Of coming and of going
Than I can bear..."
-Time/Carol Lynn Pearson
______________________________________________________________________
It was late afternoon by the time Emily began the half-hour journey to meet her sister. The sun had already set, and snow began to fall, dusting yesterday’s six crusted inches. Her chained tires bit noisily into the icy road. Flakes sparkled as they fell, catching the glint of her headlights and then dissolving before her eyes on the warm glass of her windshield. Long ago she learned that no two snowflakes were ever the same, and she pondered the enormity of that concept as this tide of individuality and perfection blew gracefully in the wind. In a day or two, the sun would reclaim them, she knew. It always did… melting them into the softened earth.
Her sister was waiting when she arrived at the airport. They smiled and embraced, settling into their usual seats in the greeting area. Both Emily and Jessica sported matching back packs. Black ones. Each year, on the anniversary of their father’s death, they met at the last place both of them had seen him alive: the airport. It was an odd ritual, but a peaceful one. It was Christmas time, and so the terminal was packed with people rushing to get in and out. They watched and invented lives for the people they saw. The man in the green beanie kitty-corner from them held a bunch of flowers nervously, standing whenever a new gush of passengers filed out of the bottleneck, checking his watch, sitting down again, standing, shifting his weight… they imagined that he was waiting for his fiancé to come home from visiting her parents. They had never been apart for so long. They waited with baited breath to see what she looked like… and then laughed when an elderly woman who must have been his mother emerged. After some people-watching, the backpacks were opened.
Each sister carried a photo album with precious photos of her favorite memories, and they recounted each story, laughing and filling in each other’s details. They ate Little Debbie Star Crunch cookies from shiny plastic wrappers, and drank grape and orange shasta’s at room temperature. Jessica moved like he did. She had the same mannerisms when she talked. She winked the same way. She even had the same dimples. And Emily’s hair was jet black and wavy like his had been, and starting to go salt-and-pepper prematurely. Combined, they were a small monument to him. Proof that he lived. They talked about the last visit… the last words they said. How unexpected his death had been… how young was. How he would have loved their children. What he would think of them now.
Stillness settled over them and they sat watching again, wordlessly. They selected the airport as a meeting place, because they liked to remember their father alive. He felt close, like it had been yesterday that they had last hugged each other and said that it wouldn’t be long before another visit. Although, tonight would make it six years since they last heard his voice. They wondered reverently at the intensity all around them. The coming and going. So many separate lives converging. The groups hardly noticed each other, lost in the gravity of each one’s experience… the elation of reunion: a mother crying with happiness as she held her little ones after being away, lovers kissing, friends squealing with delight. The departures were always more discreet. A melancholy aura surrounded them, and Emily could never watch for long. She felt intrusive, sharing their last moments. No one seemed to notice. No one cared about being a spectacle, letting tears fall freely as a loved one disappeared around that corner… and the waiting began.
For Emily, the freshness of that first cut surfaced in her memory… falling asleep the night he died with wet cheeks… and waking that first morning to the bitterness of her new reality. The first day of waiting the rest of her life to see him again.
The sisters had their own small goodbye in the parking garage outside the airport. Emily held on a bit longer and tighter than usual, allowing a few tears to leak out. Long after Jessica left, she sat in her car and watched the snow. It reflected the pink hue of the clouds above it, and was strangely bright. Out of her bag, she pulled a small pouch of her father’s ashes. In the gray dust, tiny white shards glinted in the soft light. Halfway home, she pulled over with the pouch nestled securely in the palm of her bare hand. With cold digits, red from the chill and the pink light, she poured out the fine dust of her father’s remains and let the soft wind lift them from her fingertips and lose them in the glistening night.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Hands by Rebecca
can guess what kind of musician a new violin student will be just by watching her hands. They announce her style before she ever lifts a bow or presses the strings. Megan is a fidgeter. Her movements are jerky and constant. Her sound is disjointed and when I close my eyes, I feel anxious listening to her. Hannah is eight years old, with dainty little fingers that curiously wander over my nearby belongings. She tells too many stories, but is hard to discourage, because I like hearing her talk. She has a sweet, even tone when she plays that comes very naturally, and obedience that carries her through the difficulties. Rick is an eager kid who plays happily, but without much attention to the sound he makes. His thick fingertips move technically toward the end of a song like a prize. He hasn’t discovered the journey yet. And his sister, who shares the same violin, is used to her own excellence in every other facet of life. She wants this to be easy – like everything else. And when it isn’t, she doesn’t want it at all. Her hands are stubborn, refusing to progress – hoping I won’t notice that she is holding the bow incorrectly or has collapsed her wrist against the violin’s neck. Growing hurts. It takes time for the awkwardness of technique to become second nature to a musician’s hands… there is no instant gratification, because it takes so long to sound good. She wants to stay comfortable. She wants to stay a beginner if advancing means stretching and a period of discomfort. She is seven years old, and already her idea of perfection is an obstacle.
Hands reveal much about us. They give away secrets we think we are keeping… the way we move, the way we touch. Hands are the storytellers of our truest selves. I thought about this while I cooked dinner the other night. I looked at my own hands – too large in proportion to the rest of my body. Broad palms with meaty fingers that don’t taper and come to blunt round tips. They are perfect for the deep pressure my autistic son craves, as well as the massages my husband groans through as I release the knotted muscles deep beneath the skin on his broad back. They are scarred from old warts and mishaps – like the haircut I gave Leah, snipping deep into my flesh along with a curtain of her wet hair. They are the feminine version of my father’s. I used to sit by him in church and trace the faded line that ran jaggedly between his middle and ring finger from the motorcycle accident that tore it in half. He moved in a weighted way – as if her were always disappointing himself, sparking in anger when he fumbled. The ghost of someone else’s expectations and jeers, and his own conceived failures riding there always. He played the piano, but rarely in my recollection. Only to pass time waiting for his five children to get ready for a trip somewhere. Beatles’ songs. “Michelle”... “Yesterday”... He was good, too – they were complicated arrangements that filled the whole house, not simplified little ditties. A sadness passes through me when I wonder why he didn’t play more. I think he cheated himself.
My mother’s hands are the gentle and strong. They cradle the power to comfort and calm, soothing in illness or strain. When my children were infants and I was desperate for them to stay asleep when I laid them in bed, I tried to imagine how my mother would have done it, slowly and gently releasing them the way I thought she might.
My sister, Rachel and I look nothing alike, but our fingernails have the same funny flimsiness when they grow out at all, warping and curling at the ends. I keep mine stubby – she grows them out to varying lengths. They cover her mouth when we laugh together, and fashion silly gifts for each other to keep close despite the distance. We are different in the most complimentary ways. Both musicians who prefer the inner voices of an orchestra, opting for the bassoon or the viola over the clarinet or the violin (although we can play both). We prefer a duet over a solo any day. Even our singing voices blend perfectly. I would rather sing with her than anyone else.
Cooking, of course, reminded me of David. I used to watch him, enraptured, as he made a meal. His capable hands cut quick even slices, butting his knuckles against the blade. He seasoned carefully, later cupping the steam as it rose from a pot and pulling it to his face to catch the aroma. Anything he created was made with precision and a kind of tenderness and grace. We live the way we move.
Leah has gorgeous hands. They are able and feminine, with lovely slender digits. Her motions are reserved and comfortable. I can picture her scratching feverishly in a journal, putting her soul into her work. Her hands are like her heart – warm and fruitful.
Chadd’s are rough and thick, big enough that one of them spread out spans a keyboard when he types. He moves with confidence, never bothering to over-articulate with gestures. They have obvious power, kept controlled in a casual way that comes with years of knowing his own strength. When I hold them, my own feel swallowed up.
Hands are like eyes. They give away, they take in. They communicate. Connect. Express. Our hands carry out our true intentions and our desires. They give away who we are more authentically than our words… to anyone who bothers to see.
Hands reveal much about us. They give away secrets we think we are keeping… the way we move, the way we touch. Hands are the storytellers of our truest selves. I thought about this while I cooked dinner the other night. I looked at my own hands – too large in proportion to the rest of my body. Broad palms with meaty fingers that don’t taper and come to blunt round tips. They are perfect for the deep pressure my autistic son craves, as well as the massages my husband groans through as I release the knotted muscles deep beneath the skin on his broad back. They are scarred from old warts and mishaps – like the haircut I gave Leah, snipping deep into my flesh along with a curtain of her wet hair. They are the feminine version of my father’s. I used to sit by him in church and trace the faded line that ran jaggedly between his middle and ring finger from the motorcycle accident that tore it in half. He moved in a weighted way – as if her were always disappointing himself, sparking in anger when he fumbled. The ghost of someone else’s expectations and jeers, and his own conceived failures riding there always. He played the piano, but rarely in my recollection. Only to pass time waiting for his five children to get ready for a trip somewhere. Beatles’ songs. “Michelle”... “Yesterday”... He was good, too – they were complicated arrangements that filled the whole house, not simplified little ditties. A sadness passes through me when I wonder why he didn’t play more. I think he cheated himself.
My mother’s hands are the gentle and strong. They cradle the power to comfort and calm, soothing in illness or strain. When my children were infants and I was desperate for them to stay asleep when I laid them in bed, I tried to imagine how my mother would have done it, slowly and gently releasing them the way I thought she might.
My sister, Rachel and I look nothing alike, but our fingernails have the same funny flimsiness when they grow out at all, warping and curling at the ends. I keep mine stubby – she grows them out to varying lengths. They cover her mouth when we laugh together, and fashion silly gifts for each other to keep close despite the distance. We are different in the most complimentary ways. Both musicians who prefer the inner voices of an orchestra, opting for the bassoon or the viola over the clarinet or the violin (although we can play both). We prefer a duet over a solo any day. Even our singing voices blend perfectly. I would rather sing with her than anyone else.
Cooking, of course, reminded me of David. I used to watch him, enraptured, as he made a meal. His capable hands cut quick even slices, butting his knuckles against the blade. He seasoned carefully, later cupping the steam as it rose from a pot and pulling it to his face to catch the aroma. Anything he created was made with precision and a kind of tenderness and grace. We live the way we move.
Leah has gorgeous hands. They are able and feminine, with lovely slender digits. Her motions are reserved and comfortable. I can picture her scratching feverishly in a journal, putting her soul into her work. Her hands are like her heart – warm and fruitful.
Chadd’s are rough and thick, big enough that one of them spread out spans a keyboard when he types. He moves with confidence, never bothering to over-articulate with gestures. They have obvious power, kept controlled in a casual way that comes with years of knowing his own strength. When I hold them, my own feel swallowed up.
Hands are like eyes. They give away, they take in. They communicate. Connect. Express. Our hands carry out our true intentions and our desires. They give away who we are more authentically than our words… to anyone who bothers to see.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Old Wisdom by Tulah Dixie
I wish I lived in Alaska. Or Norway. Or anywhere but here. Why do I have to exist in this world apart from him? Every time I go to work at the bookstore, there he is, standing behind the counter, smiling at customers, happy in his existence, while I walk to the back of the store to unpack boxes.
It all started four months ago, when I first got the job. I walked to the Science Fiction section, pushing a cart of Star Trek books. I didn't realize they still wrote Star Trek books. As I began putting them on the shelf, he walked by, pausing to smile. I knew at that moment that my life would never be the same.
The first two weeks of our relationship were heaven. The way he looked at me, the feeling of his hand on my hair, everything was perfect. He kissed like an angel, and acted like the perfect gentleman when went out. But then I felt him drawing away, even though I didn't want to admit it. I clung, and clung, but he broke away despite it.
And now he is dating the girl who works at the cafe, gazing sweetly at her from behind he cash register. And I am lonely, watching in my mandatory apron, my heart breaking a little more every day.
During my lunch break one day I stopped at the deli a few stores down for a cookie and a soda. It was pretty packed, so I went outside and sat on a bench. After a few minutes an old man sat down at the other end of the bench, holding a newspaper in one hand, and a leash in the other. His dog was obviously a mutt; maybe on of his ancestors was a golden retriever, who knows.
I nibbled my cookie slowly, watching the shoppers pass by, when he walked by, hand in hand with Ms. Cafe. I didn't realize that I had paused with the cookie in my mouth until the old man spoke.
“I take it you have some feelings for that young man there.” I glanced at him, surprised. I didn't know what to say, was I that obvious? Finally I just nodded.
“I thought I would mourn my first love forever. But then I met my Mable, and we spent 53 wonderful years together. Just wait, you'll meet your real Prince Charming one of these days.”
“Thank you,” I said, at a loss for words. I expected the old man to keep talking, maybe tell me more about Mable, but I glanced at him and his eyes were closed. I studied his wrinkled face, imagining that each line was a trial, or a heartbreak, or maybe even a great joy. Suddenly my love trouble seemed so small, silly. I had the rest of my life, if it took that long, to find the man I would really love. And was that really the most important thing? I vowed then and there to just be happy, now matter where my life took me.
I waited half an hour to talk to the old man again, but he was still snoring softly, and I had to get back to work. So I settled for giving his dog a good scratch behind the ears, and also the last bit of my cookie, then stood up and walked back to work.
As I put stickers on the bargain books later that day, my old love walked by behind me. We hadn't spoken since he'd told me it just wasn't working. Remembering my old friend, I looked right at him and smiled. He looked confused, but I kept smiling and even said hi.
“Uh, hi.” He walked away, looking as wonderful as ever, but for the first time in three months, I didn't look back.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Autumn by Iris Rosewater
Linus Hopper was a creature of habit. It had been years since he had tried anything new… a new brand of toothpaste, a new outfit, a new food. When he turned 70, he decided to retire from change. He never much liked it, anyway. Now that Else had passed on, there was no one to bother him about it. So, he stayed safely and contentedly in his small life day in and day out, with every decision having been made years and years before. It was a gentle rhythm you could fall asleep to. Every morning, he woke without an alarm at exactly 7:05 a.m. He had one cup of Postum with his Newspaper. He put on his cap and grey wool sweater and headed out, walking just around the corner to the bakery, where he purchased one raspberry turnover. He held the pastry up to his nose, careful not to get any sweet on the grey bristles of his moustache, and smelled the warm fruit inside before taking a bite. Licking his fingers, he walked down the street to his place of business: an antique bookstore which he bought after retiring as a kind of hobby. It wasn’t terribly busy. Usually, he sat all day in his wingchair just next to the front counter and read. It smelled of old wood and tobacco smoke. It was quiet. It was predictable. It was perfect.
The autumn was an irritating season for Linus. It was a changing season. The weather was fickle. He did like the trees, though, despite himself – and he watched from his window as a surprisingly strong wind stripped the boughs naked, filling the air with fiery orange and red leaves. The skeletons seemed undignified to him. And cold. As the light faded in the late afternoon, he watched the last of the November harvest swirl in the street. Soon he would walk home in the dark to the serenade of their thin bones crunching beneath his penny loafers. Mortality played out. Linus drew a long breath and turned the page in his book.
The following morning, Linus woke up at 7:05. He retrieved his newspaper from the front steps. He drank his postum. He put on his cap and sweater. But, as he stepped out into borders of his small world, he was met by an anomaly. A small, brown, wiry-haired dog blocked his way and looked up at him through what looked like overgrown eyebrows. Linus stood for a moment and stared back. And then, wordlessly, sidestepped the animal and continued his way to the bakery. The leaves were a thick blanket over the sidewalk and had dried in the crisp night air. It was a noisy trudge around the corner. A little too noisy. He turned around. The dog stopped too, and wagged its little brown tail expectantly behind him. Irritated now, Linus marched on for his turnover. The dog watched through the window and sniffed at the air as Linus took a delighted whiff. Linus watched back. This was going to be a problem.
All the way down the street to the bookshop the dog followed Linus, never daring to walk at his side, but dutifully keeping the same pace. That first day was really unnerving. The mutt parked itself right outside his shop and stayed there the whole day. Linus pretended not to pay it any attention, for fear of encouraging the thing, but it stayed in his peripheral vision all day long – sometimes sleeping, sometimes licking its untidy fur, but usually staring through the window right at him. The best thing, he decided, was to pay it no mind and it would grow bored of trying and go away. But, it didn’t. It followed him home that night and greeted him with a kind of doggy smile the next morning as he opened the front door for his newspaper. Linus sighed as he heard the steady crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch of the four paws behind him on the way to work. He felt a pang of guilt, which he tried to swallow, as he took his first delicious bite of raspberry turnover and caught the longing gaze of the dog waiting for him outside. He used a napkin instead of licking his fingers as he walked to work.
Linus’ only customer remarked at what a loyal pet he must have as he stepped into the shop. Not much for conversation, Linus gave a polite chuckle and nod before returning to his book. The dog must have seen and took it the wrong way, he decided as they walked together through the early night back to his apartment. Before turning in, he put bowl of water on the front stoop.
By the third day, both he and the dog had become used to this new routine. It had even started walking next to Linus instead of behind him… and, against his better judgment, he gave the little thing the last bite of his pastry as he left the bakery. He pondered over his predicament all that day, without the pretense of any book in his lap. The two of them stared each other down, having an unspoken conversation with their faces. ‘I’m boring,’ Linus’ face warned. ‘I don’t care,’ countered the mutt. ‘I’m old and irritable!’ he frowned. ‘I’ll survive,’ it reasoned back. ‘I eat all the same food and wear all the same clothes and I never go anyplace new at all…’ he chewed on his lip. ‘I know,’ smiled the dog, letting its tongue loll out playfully. So, that afternoon, they made their decision.
Linus’ fingers were cold as he twisted the old key in its lock to open his apartment. He patted Mitzy, who looked back up at him with her warm black eyes before trotting for the first time into their nice warm home.
The autumn was an irritating season for Linus. It was a changing season. The weather was fickle. He did like the trees, though, despite himself – and he watched from his window as a surprisingly strong wind stripped the boughs naked, filling the air with fiery orange and red leaves. The skeletons seemed undignified to him. And cold. As the light faded in the late afternoon, he watched the last of the November harvest swirl in the street. Soon he would walk home in the dark to the serenade of their thin bones crunching beneath his penny loafers. Mortality played out. Linus drew a long breath and turned the page in his book.
The following morning, Linus woke up at 7:05. He retrieved his newspaper from the front steps. He drank his postum. He put on his cap and sweater. But, as he stepped out into borders of his small world, he was met by an anomaly. A small, brown, wiry-haired dog blocked his way and looked up at him through what looked like overgrown eyebrows. Linus stood for a moment and stared back. And then, wordlessly, sidestepped the animal and continued his way to the bakery. The leaves were a thick blanket over the sidewalk and had dried in the crisp night air. It was a noisy trudge around the corner. A little too noisy. He turned around. The dog stopped too, and wagged its little brown tail expectantly behind him. Irritated now, Linus marched on for his turnover. The dog watched through the window and sniffed at the air as Linus took a delighted whiff. Linus watched back. This was going to be a problem.
All the way down the street to the bookshop the dog followed Linus, never daring to walk at his side, but dutifully keeping the same pace. That first day was really unnerving. The mutt parked itself right outside his shop and stayed there the whole day. Linus pretended not to pay it any attention, for fear of encouraging the thing, but it stayed in his peripheral vision all day long – sometimes sleeping, sometimes licking its untidy fur, but usually staring through the window right at him. The best thing, he decided, was to pay it no mind and it would grow bored of trying and go away. But, it didn’t. It followed him home that night and greeted him with a kind of doggy smile the next morning as he opened the front door for his newspaper. Linus sighed as he heard the steady crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch of the four paws behind him on the way to work. He felt a pang of guilt, which he tried to swallow, as he took his first delicious bite of raspberry turnover and caught the longing gaze of the dog waiting for him outside. He used a napkin instead of licking his fingers as he walked to work.
Linus’ only customer remarked at what a loyal pet he must have as he stepped into the shop. Not much for conversation, Linus gave a polite chuckle and nod before returning to his book. The dog must have seen and took it the wrong way, he decided as they walked together through the early night back to his apartment. Before turning in, he put bowl of water on the front stoop.
By the third day, both he and the dog had become used to this new routine. It had even started walking next to Linus instead of behind him… and, against his better judgment, he gave the little thing the last bite of his pastry as he left the bakery. He pondered over his predicament all that day, without the pretense of any book in his lap. The two of them stared each other down, having an unspoken conversation with their faces. ‘I’m boring,’ Linus’ face warned. ‘I don’t care,’ countered the mutt. ‘I’m old and irritable!’ he frowned. ‘I’ll survive,’ it reasoned back. ‘I eat all the same food and wear all the same clothes and I never go anyplace new at all…’ he chewed on his lip. ‘I know,’ smiled the dog, letting its tongue loll out playfully. So, that afternoon, they made their decision.
Linus’ fingers were cold as he twisted the old key in its lock to open his apartment. He patted Mitzy, who looked back up at him with her warm black eyes before trotting for the first time into their nice warm home.
Alivia's Wish by Rebecca
My friend Pam’s daughter, Alivia, turns five today! Her party is tomorrow. I have traditionally written and illustrated stories for Alivia and her brother for their birthdays. When I asked her what adventure she would like to go on, she said she wanted to be a bride at the temple. I thought that was very sweet, but the storyteller in me grimaced a little… She’s usually very creative, and I wasn’t sure how to make a very interesting story for a five year old about that! Here’s what I came up with:
Alivia’s Wish
Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful fairy named Alivia. She wore ballet slippers and a bright red tutu and carried a magical wand wherever she went. She had a very important job in the fairy world. She was the wishing fairy. Every night, she flitted her silvery wings in the darkness of a villager’s cottage. With her tiny feet, she tip-toed on a dreamer’s pillow just after they fell asleep… and, if she listened very carefully, she could hear their dearest wish as they sighed in slumber. Then, with her glass wand, she twirled and pirouetted lightly beside the dreamer’s head, and when they woke, their wish would come true.
Alivia the fairy loved her job. No one else had her special talent, so she had lots and lots to do every night. But, when all the work was done, and she flew back to her fairy home as the sun came up, she felt lonely. So many times she had granted a wish for companionship and love… and come home to an empty house. Only her tortoise greeted her as she walked in the door. Alivia’s heart was heavy, because no one could grant HER heart’s desire.
One night, as Alivia busily made her way from house to house, she came upon a young man named John. He was very handsome. She stood softly by his face as he slept and listened to his dreams. She was surprised as she heard how lonely he was, and how he wanted so much to find his true love. Surely he would have found her, she thought. She began her dream-granting dance with her wand, when suddenly he awoke! And, as the last flecks of sparkling dust fell from her wand, he turned instantly into a fairy himself! They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled.
For months and months they took long walks in the morning when her work was done. They became very good friends.
One morning, as they sat beside the lake, John looked into her lovely blue eyes and asked her to marry him. They were wed in the temple for time and eternity, and Alivia the fairy was the happiest, most beautiful bride in the whole world – because both of their dreams had come true.
Alivia’s Wish
Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful fairy named Alivia. She wore ballet slippers and a bright red tutu and carried a magical wand wherever she went. She had a very important job in the fairy world. She was the wishing fairy. Every night, she flitted her silvery wings in the darkness of a villager’s cottage. With her tiny feet, she tip-toed on a dreamer’s pillow just after they fell asleep… and, if she listened very carefully, she could hear their dearest wish as they sighed in slumber. Then, with her glass wand, she twirled and pirouetted lightly beside the dreamer’s head, and when they woke, their wish would come true.
Alivia the fairy loved her job. No one else had her special talent, so she had lots and lots to do every night. But, when all the work was done, and she flew back to her fairy home as the sun came up, she felt lonely. So many times she had granted a wish for companionship and love… and come home to an empty house. Only her tortoise greeted her as she walked in the door. Alivia’s heart was heavy, because no one could grant HER heart’s desire.
One night, as Alivia busily made her way from house to house, she came upon a young man named John. He was very handsome. She stood softly by his face as he slept and listened to his dreams. She was surprised as she heard how lonely he was, and how he wanted so much to find his true love. Surely he would have found her, she thought. She began her dream-granting dance with her wand, when suddenly he awoke! And, as the last flecks of sparkling dust fell from her wand, he turned instantly into a fairy himself! They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled.
For months and months they took long walks in the morning when her work was done. They became very good friends.
One morning, as they sat beside the lake, John looked into her lovely blue eyes and asked her to marry him. They were wed in the temple for time and eternity, and Alivia the fairy was the happiest, most beautiful bride in the whole world – because both of their dreams had come true.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
New IFI's
Hello All,
Sorry I have not been able to keep up, but the new subjects are:
a Dog, the Bookstore, and an Old Man.
Have Fun,
Daryl
Sorry I have not been able to keep up, but the new subjects are:
a Dog, the Bookstore, and an Old Man.
Have Fun,
Daryl
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)