by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
By Benjamin J.Chase Always, my father standsin the gravel drivewayof whatever eveningI happen to be leaving. Smiling, he waves. He stands as if to sayeverything else can wait—he will be a father,even into the cold night.As if this were no departure.
By Benjamin J. Chase Sometimes I spend an afternoonon those half-padded seatsfacing glass panelsin the arrivals section,as if at the movie theater,to watch the droves of peopleentering my life. It’s cheating, I know, a way to stealan expectant glancefrom a stranger who might mistake me,for an instant,as a friend. But…