we walk, and we remember: trent’s papa, the man who did magic tricks and made gun powder in his kitchen and ate fried chicken every sunday, we remember his life and the lives of the saints, here in the snow.

flags placed by the stones of the veterans, souls dug deep and we walk where they rest, their bodies holding up the world.

(for more, won’t you follow me here, dear people, to michelle’s lovely place? thank you… you mean the world to me.)

(linking with laura and jen)