pilgrim . poet . ponderer of all things .
I am about six years old, maybe younger. I am at the house of the girl a few doors down. The house that always smells of dampness and cigarette smoke; the girl with the Rainbow Brite and Cabbage Patch dolls, the silent older brother, the mother with a perm-slash-mullet, and the father who always …
It’s the perfect season for scarves at the moment. A warm barrier against the pirecing cold hands reaching to clamp themselves around the bare-necked. The very best scarves are thick and sumptuous and hand-knitted with love. I have some very fond memories of knitting. Well, no… I have some very fond memories of learning to …
