I turned to the only francophone music I could find in northern Illinois: the early Canadian albums of Céline Dion.
When I awake with no desire to rush for a pen, it’s hard to see the value in what is happening.
I don’t know why I think of her now, standing at the cliff’s edge, nothing before me but water.
Everyone else in my family would remember me when I was gone. But not him.
That spring, still lamenting the loss of sidewalks, my daughter would barely leave the house without me by her side.
