Out of all my boys, I loved Ginger the most. We used to walk the woods looking for truffles, dog in tow, binoculars in hand, scouting out rare birds. We built bear traps, pitched tents, roasted squirrels, skinned toads, forded streams, got lost, but I always found my way back to him. Maybe it was the way his knees knocked or his fire-spun hair or the way he drove his mother across town in his old paneled wagon. We were married for a short time–my only marriage–lived in a cabin by a river, smoked our own salmon and made dandelion wine. When it ended I swore I’d never read poetry again: But when thou from this world wilt go, the whole world vapours with thy breath, he’d whisper as he wove daisy chains into my hair.
Breaking Point: A walkabout in the Mojave desert, a can of beans, a cave and lipstick on his pant leg.
