Whispers under patchwork quilts, Linked arms under twirling pink umbrellas, Fresh coffees set down beside keyboards at dusk, Blankets wrapped over tense shoulders. On some days they seem a distant timeline, On others just beyond the next threshold. Another season, another ‘morrow, Seldom a triumph cataloged in a photo album, Often a fizzle souring into … Continue reading Time
'We'll be on the beach again soon,' she croaked, through the tubes. I nodded, hardly looking up from The Gruffalo. So I waited. At the beach. Everyday. For fifty years. And realized not long ago, that I was the one running late.