by Rowan Tate I Suspect That Moths and Regret share a language no one translates. Grief has poor timing and excellent posture; I am learning to walk without finishing the sentence. I am not who I meant to become, but the bread still rises.
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While We Wait
by Daniel Davis Tammy’s fingers drummed against the coffee mug. For the twentieth time in the past hour, she glanced at the cabinet above the fridge, the one she had to use a stepladder to reach. She could see the bottles inside, beckoning. Just a nip, as her grandmother would…