Ancestral: 11.19.14

Posted by: Stasa

bottles 1

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.

This entry was posted by Stasa.

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