Her name was Saffron, spelled like spice, and when spoken, the sound bloomed hymns. “Ain’t she a looker,” Tazzy would say. “Her face cheeks are caramel flushed with porcelain rouge.” He kept Saffron in his left pocket, over his heart, where she folded and creased into one day emotional scars.  Our Taz was the target of banter, after all, he… Read more →