The Fire Still Burns
They say the land remembers. Maybe that’s why I kept coming back, to the red dirt riverbeds, to the trails where cedar smoke used to hang like breath in winter. I didn’t grow up with a map of who we…
They say the land remembers. Maybe that’s why I kept coming back, to the red dirt riverbeds, to the trails where cedar smoke used to hang like breath in winter. I didn’t grow up with a map of who we…
I’ve seen hunger walk through a front door like it owned the place. 1932. My youngest hadn’t eaten in two days, and I was staring at a war medal that couldn’t be traded for bread. I served in France in…
I was eight the year the wheat turned to dust. My father said it was the worst of the bad years, though I didn’t understand how the sky could be that blue and still hold so much sorrow. We lived…