We moved to Charlotte late last year, early enough to endure the end of summer. A swampy season, though the memory of it fades with all else.
Last night it snowed, all is covered. The backyard is reminiscent of things I can hardly recall in anything more than snapshots. Somehow.
The day passed as if, as old photo albums, or as just flipping through - sick from saccharine, queasy from memory. The type of drain and abandon one feels after alphabetizing somebody else's books, the lover who just walked out your door.
Realizing so late it all goes by the author, not the title.
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