A door opens to that day
My father long-gone, I open one of his books, Bonnard or Vuillard—torn paper flutters to the floor. His drawing of two cows, one little & one big, their outlines wobbly as calf legs. A door opens to that day when he told me stories about a year he spent roping cattle, being a cowboy. We rode through the valley. Cigarette… Read more →