Movement never lies. It is a barometer telling the state of the soul's
weather to all who can read it.
—Martha Graham
weather to all who can read it.
—Martha Graham
The day before, I started thinking "They won't have the deviled eggs." They had felt like something capricious on the menu—somebody had simply bought too many eggs that first week of October.
My life has prepared me for disappointment, and I snuggle my face into it like a suffocating old sweater. I hypothesize that this gives me character.
We dropped the dogs off and cantered two doors up to the tiny building, separated from a row of old, three-story brick storefronts and a third their height—like a one-car garage with a gabled roof.
They have them.
Gary said this to me as he might have said, just as gravely, The surgery went well.
This time, I found myself in a seat facing the kitchen rather than Main Street.
We had crossed the frozen, yellow-white Penobscot on the new bridge and followed the marshes up through Frankfort—its Congregational church, post office, and general store huddled together in the bright noontime cold—into Winterport, and the views out the car window not even Andy Wyeth's burnt umber and ultramarine could beautify. It was nothing but desolate, frozen mud along the banks, the dead grasses combed through by the retreating water like the hair of a corpse.
