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It’s hard to imagine that some of his stories really happened. But maybe that’s because I’ve only known him since he became a dad.
Bars of soap are brightly fragranced, and colored in soft pastels. Vials are filled with ash from the Mount St. Helen’s eruption, and they look like granulated potions, dark glittering magic. Prints of watercolor tulip fields are sheathed in plastic. Glass bear-shaped jars are filled with thick, gold honey.
getting it wrong for years, for generations. But the American West has never been an empty wilderness. It has always had people and architecture, civilizations and traditions. If you want to draw these landscapes, Edie, please do it right by recognizing how full they are. Find the beauty others have missed, and show it the way only someone like you can.”
The sea stretches before me, vast and bright and inviting. The air is salty, with a crisp aftertaste like a sip of iced water. Sailboats and speedboats leave foamy white trails in their wake. Two ferries are about to cross paths in the middle of their journey, their bloated white bodies lined with rows of tinted black windows. The sky curves overhead, like the interior of a great
blue bowl.
