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…
by Mark Conkling Jeremy leaned forward on his handicapped walker. “Mother, that’s insane. There’s absolutely no reason to burn the house down.” Naomi crossed her arms. “Do what I say. Burn it down the day after my funeral.” “But why?” “I don’t ever want anyone else cooking in my kitchen,…