I write this to you through a fog of jet lag—yesterday I flew into a golden London dawn, returning from a trip to visit my brother who lives in Vermont. I had woken amongst green mountains, in an old, creaky house with a jetty, on the edge of a pond (or what I would call a small lake), but I found myself stumbling sleepless into a second morning. After …
© 2024 Laura Pashby
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