Photography.
montreal writes
Poems.
The first years of my life were exhausting.
Poems.
Roger was seven when he died.
I never cared for hockey.
As I step out of the rusted station wagon, the unforgettable scents of Vancouver Island strike me — lilac, gravel, and salt.
Poem.
Bonnie’s parents had said they would be back in five minutes.
At night, Misha dreamt of being a witch.
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