by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
All love at first, like generous wine, Ferments and frets until ‘tis fine; But when ‘tis settled on the lee, And from th’ impurer matter free, Becomes the richer still the older, And proves the pleasanter the colder. –– Samuel Butler Why are my daughters not beautiful, lamented ancient…