On my way to town, I drive past houses where smoke from chimneys curls upward. It’s comforting to watch the updraft. I suddenly recall the boxy houses with chimneys that I once drew with a pencil as a child, always a curl of smoke climbing.
Jimmy, my husband, actually posed this question in the truck. I laughed and changed the topic. I could not deal with it at the time. Later, I wrote this letter. (I kept it private and did not share it with him for three weeks.)
The tail end of fall is falling outside. Leaves pile up.
A holy thing.
My husband is disturbed by the leaves and wants time to mow them. Childhood comes to my mind every time I kick leaves. How I loved falling headlong into a pile. I say, “No hurry on that. I’m loving th...