EN
I live in a cedar A-frame just off the lake trail in Coeur d’Alene. The porch faces west, so at dusk the whole living room turns honey-colored. After
I turned seventy-two on a Sunday in early June, and the mist still hung low on the Blue Ridge like a held breath. That morning I found myself
I turned seventy-two on a Saturday in early October, when the cottonwoods along the Boise River were a loud yellow and the air smelled like damp sage. My
I divorced Richard after forty-seven years of marriage. No other woman, no big blowout—just a thousand tiny cracks that finally gave way. Richard made every decision: where we
The seed packet cost ninety-seven cents at the Dollar General out on Route 19. I bought it because February in Asheville, North Carolina, had been nothing but gray
For forty-seven of our fifty years, Richard and I lived in a two-story colonial on a street lined with sugar maples in Madison. Every autumn the city smelled
The Overlook Lodge clung to a ridge above town, its pine-log walls creaking in the November wind. Inside, mason jars of dried sage and goldenrod lined two long
I've had a lot of people cry in my office over the years, but usually it's about a lost house or a dead relative's unpaid taxes. This was
I was down on my knees behind the rhododendron, fingers buried in cool dirt, when I heard the number. A man’s voice—Todd, the son—boomed right through the Hendersons’
I’ve owned Millie’s Flowers out on Route 9, right across from the gate of Briarwood Hills Cemetery, for thirty-one years come October. I’ve sold wreaths for funerals I