The Hidden Lines of the Family Land We Shared

the smell of seasoned oak strong in the cold air.

“This obsession you have with Father’s old drawings is nothing but vanity,” he said, his face shadowed by the porch light.

I held three logs against my chest, the rough bark scraping against my knit sweater.

“It is not vanity to want the truth, Arthur,” I said.

“It is selfish,” he said, his voice dropping continue reading …