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March is such a fickle month. It is the seam between winter and spring—though seam suggests an even hem, and March is more like a rough line of stitches sewn by an unsteady hand, swinging wildly between January gusts and June greens. You don’t know what you’ll find, until you step outside.
Her father’s work is beautiful, the wood smooth where his hands are rough, delicate where he is large.
Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
