In the soil, there is no chronology, no ordered history, this happened and then that. There is just evidence of a life, messy and tangled. “That’s the time when I ran over my sister’s foot with my bike” lives right next to the strange comfort of streetlights across my grandmother’s back patio, the taste of watermelon and the salt of summer, and “this pl…
© 2024 Deborah Potter
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