I started surfing again. Every day actually, since leaving the mountains a couple of weeks back. I’ve been trailering my horses to the mountains every spring for the last five years, staying the summer and fall, and bringing them south when the snow began to fly. And that’s where …
I left yesterday. I loaded the horses in the trailer before dawn, as my mom stood in the doorway crying. She said Don’t go when I hugged her, in direct contrast to the other day when she asked why I was even there. I knew another part of her …
I walk into the laundry room today to hug her goodbye, and she venomously whispers I know what you’re doing, like I’m an apologetic teenager sneaking away to a keg party, making premonitory amends to a disapproving parent. But I’m 43 years-old, at least for one more day. My …
I’m in my early 40s, and my mom is still kind of here. Probably not for long, though, so I’m going to start writing some of these moments down. For both of us. Not really for her, since she doesn’t read much these days. More for you and me. …