for Gael Queuing… a particularly British habit. So orderly. So polite. So not Hilary. Hilary wasn’t one to queue. Not if she could avoid it. She put it down to being half-Austrian. She had neither the time nor the inclination.… Continue Reading
The day of the funeral, it fails to rain. It would be easier to bear if the sky wept with us. Instead, sunlight and warmth touch every corner of our mountains, flicker on every tree leaf, fill each breeze. A… Continue Reading
The homeless man at the interchange is a veteran too and that makes me uncomfortable, especially today. His unkempt beard hangs past his collar and weaves with the fraying strands of his jacket. Headphones adjust themselves over ears, eyes glance… Continue Reading
He looked across the breakfast table, knowing that soon he’d have to choose his words carefully. It was the same every year. First the flags popped out along their quiet suburban street. Then the television broadcasts of news, parades, observances… Continue Reading