If someone ever found the shoe box in my closet with old newspapers and postcards, they would think I was fondly remembering a distant past. In truth, I'm not remembering anything, and there's nothing fond about the way I study them every year like clockwork. No one wants me going back there; they think it'll reopen the wound. Maybe if they saw the shoe box, they'd know it never closed in the first place.
Camp Maple Wind, out 10.26.24.


















