ALL WRITING

They walk up the road from the beach, a new mother and new grandmother together. Criss-crossing cirrus clouds stream across blue heavens, foreshadowing wind ...

She used to write verse once, my mother. Then she aged; her memory faded. I give her the poems I’ve typed ‘You wrote them,’ I tell her....

I nuzzle my face into her neck, like a child. / My memory of comfort colliding with / The hollow feeling that’s fear. ...