(Small Stone # 5)
It's so bitterly cold, but they stand at the gate, still. Waving, even though they can't see our hands through the darkness and the speeding car, still. Shouting back, even though they can't hear our goodbyes, still. Standing, in between the empty nest and the desolate road, still.
(Small Stone # 4)
Amid a jumble of socks and unfinished craft projects, a small sighting of a hand-written letter in black ink and warm love. Blogmate, friend, aunt, whale lover. Amid the debris of routine, I caress the creases out of promises and take a trip with her words.