Fridays always said it was time for golf,which left me wide, wide like the space between your teeth,on the stoop til you'd let me share your palm with your nine iron.I was a utility. Your gap toothed divot tool or a headcover that had your smile.Sometimes you'd gawk back,…

It's Granny hauling her crooked soul into heaven. Guess who I stole that image from?

The old man had always known things, was feared and revered up and down the valley for knowing things. I’d heard the stories since the day I was born.

“Would you scratch my foot again? These wool socks make me itchy.” “What about biting your tongue?” The grandfather smiled. “I only do that when my feet-scratchers aren’t around.”