kinda nerdy, happily wordy, and bookishly dorkalicious
Josephine and I met at a painting party. You know the kind—a bunch of women gather in a storefront jammed with chairs and easels, and copy the instructor’s brushstrokes while sipping wine. Two hours later, thirty almost identical paintings are held by thirty significantly tipsy artists, each woman giddy from drink, camaraderie, and creative release.
Sarah traces the curves of Emma’s cradle and rests her fingertips on the soft flannel sheet fitted neatly against its hand-turned slats. She pulls the tiny mattress out, presses her face against it, and inhales deeply.
I wasn’t born in the States, but it has been my home and my country since I was 26. I am a citizen, just as my wife, a third generation American, is. Our children were all born in the city where their mother grew up.
My parents named me August, though I came into the world on one of the coldest February mornings in Jasper County history. It wasn't long before I understood the irony and the appropriateness of their choice.
"Yo, Ivy! Sumac! Leave those raspberries alone!"
elizabeth grace 