Posted by: Stasa
Summer stretched endlessly at the cabin. While my mother wrote in the mornings I would wander out to acres of wood that surrounded us. There was one small meadow that never regrew trees. There had been a house there in the 1900s, mill workers. In one corner of the field was their dump. For years I reveled in digging through their garbage to find treasures. Too many of my mother’s stories of archeological digs in New Mexico infecting my mind.
When I visit home there is a need to touch things. I pull out my grandmother’s sewing kit and let my fingers move over the old spools, bits of cracked soap, and crumbling pin cushions.