It had been a favourite topic of discussion at dinner parties throughout the years.
Sarah bit her lip, not out of pleasure but out of the need to steady herself so she did not dart for the door.
The winds here are charged, tensed and pressing against the maple barks.
A breeze tousled the silver birches that loomed above the trail, provoking a flurry of golden autumn leaves.
Some years before, I had moved to a coastal town thinking that fortune smiled on writers in picturesque places.
My father’s funeral was on a Tuesday, on my mother’s birthday.
“You’re late, Isaac.”