Excerpts / Reviews

    I knew I had seen Evan. I know in the awkward moments standing in front of Kolt and Tanner that something so profound had caused my eyelids swelling in the night. “Maybe it happened this time so I would know in the morning something had truly taken place?” I asked myself and I knew that Uncle Evan had come to me once before, through last night’s ordeal, but it still seemed so hard. It just seemed so hard to grasp, and the pictures in the dream feel so real, but so vague. Each element of the night seemed to be slipping away even before the afternoon took its turn in time. So… what if some questions were not answered, I could see my own imagination working out answers from all the struggles. If it was all to end—then when? When would the tor­ment be over and my contempt for life cease? Even the morning’s thoughts were beginning to fade. How long could I hold onto them? It was anyone’s guess. pg 187

    Slowly, day in and day out, time has taught me the wis­dom of patience. Living with much less anxiety, time has taught me well. I cannot hurry what cannot be hurried. The doctors, lawyers and disability go on, but peacefulness seems to have set­tled in. Watching out over the ice riddled street weighs in with such peacefulness. The light of day hands me thoughts and memories, slow in their absorption, the pen flows night after night. Recording what I can remember, due diligence leads the way. So many ideas try surfacing, so I can write them into a time and place. Memory gives its good days when it decides to, and confusion holds it aloft, others. Watching from behind the small second story window, lofty snowflakes send me wondering back to times past. As the sun falls each night, the scent of a burning vanilla candle lingers over a small, makeshift desk, acting as the companion to the window monitoring the activity below. A worn cardboard box sliced in half, and turned up side down with Plywood sheets laid across it; connect the two halves—cre­ating a tiny workspace. It is a space just large enough for writing at any hour, while the candle lights its surface from the imme­diate corner. Each page tailors the words slow, but full of inspi­ration... pg 263