At home on the road

At home on the road

And sometimes there’s nothing particularly profound to write. There’s just my cold feet against his warm ones under the covers. There’s just a series of nightly visits by boys who’ve dreamed of sharks or monsters or are just plain cold and...
Waiting

Waiting

The new year is coming. And the old will softly slip away to sleep. I have a bed time habit I’ve inherited from my dad. Every night, before I turn out the last light, I walk over to the window. In the summer they’re usually wide open anyway. But in the...