Meghan Holmes via Beth Vande Griend
His youth happened; a cricket ball rolling down a grassy hill. The brick alleys behind my grandmother’s house, the unlocked back doors, a constant draft. His rigid father, hollowed out from war, soaping the muck from his hands at six pm every day before mutely sitting down to a plate of meat and vegetables passed through the hatch from the kitchen by his mother who cored apples for Sunday tarts and wore a house coat and doted on her sons. Read More