A grandmother now, she lives a life rife with careful pauses. A long-tailed calligraphy of fits and starts.
At the butcher's, halting her breath as the fat is trimmed. On the phone with her daughter; the
hesitations banging together like a river full of logs. A comma sometimes after every word.
A debilitating caution even in her prayers. As her grandchildren sleep over and her husband snores.
Watches as the fields are painted; a light yet unrelenting fall. Marvels at the power of accumulation. The
cars now all but covered the snowmen slowly gaining weight.