Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

words hung in the warm air of the kitchen, louder than the refrigerator’s low hum.

I walked to the sideboard and picked up the small charcoal sketch my father had made of me when I was a girl.

I held the old vellum draft next to my reflection in the dark window.

I drove north to Seattle before dawn, the headlamps of my old sedan cutting continue reading …