The first volume of my novel (an epic fantasy in size medium) will be published by a small publisher by September. I doubt there are still many, but the hope now and then is revealed to be so dazzling glare.
But there is a wound, a gulf of shadow to many may seem infinitesimal, but is filled with nothing so thick to swallow everything. That has nothing
devoured in a moment's eighty years of a wonderful person: the mother of my dearest friend, the grandmother of my children.
A shiny casket is concealed behind the wall of a sad urn. Along with the litter box there is a ticket. A poem that I wrote to the mother we have lost.
conceal and harder to publish.
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