Writing

Your body is asleep in the house you moved to when you were fourteen, but your brain is wide awake in your old school library.

My friend and I are sitting out back, the tiny backyard seeming to get smaller, and smaller, by the minute. It’s July, and it’s one of the hottest days of the year, so hot you can see the heat waves coming off the pavement.

It’s eighty degrees.

It is barely even spring.

What is going on?

Taking a walk along the beach with my sister

We took the evening to ourselves 

to drive to the beach and watch the sunset

It’s rare that we get to spend this time alone together

Rain was sparkling, shimmering all around Grayson.  He’d left his earbuds, his phone, resting atop the worn cushions of his favorite writing loveseat, where he’d always curl up his legs and hug his leather-bound notebook to his ches

There once was a sheep

Who ate grass by the heap

It wandered through shops

It trotted across streets

Then it happened upon wheats

Which it devoured in six heavenly feasts