Stories

The house kept one lamp burning through October, and then through November — so the house would know we were coming back.

Today the ice along the fence-line let go, all at once, in a sound like a book being closed in another room.

He drew the coastline as it was, not as it had been promised, and for this the village never quite forgave him.

A sequence of seven short poems, written at the kitchen table, in the year I learned to sit with not-knowing.

She kept the room exactly as it had been, which is not the same thing as keeping it the same.