"When everything else has gone from my brain ... what will be left, I believe, is topology: the dreaming memory of land as it lay this way and that." Annie Dillard
It's there, I know it is, though I can't put my finger on exactly what's different.
Is it the bluegrass, full of calcium from the limestone-rich soil?
Is it the way the light strikes the lawns and releases an aroma?
Or is it knowing that the bones of my ancestors lie in cemeteries just miles away?
posted by Anne Cassidy at
9:35 AM
I’m a writer and editor, the author of "Parents Who Think Too Much" and a freelancer published everywhere from the "New York Times" to "Woman’s Day." I’ve been scribbling my thoughts in one tattered notebook or another for most of my life, but this blog is the first time I’ve gone public. I'm glad you've landed here, and I hope you visit often.
Subscribe to
Posts [Atom]
<< Home