I don’t have a lot of words these days. Not for lack of trying. But my stories and poetry come in colours and sounds and textures now, and only half-formed, at that. I am adrift in sensations.

But there are lilacs on my table, and painted fabric in my basement. A half-embroidered the-shirt for Hibou next to my chair, and Bonhomme’s wet soccer ball on a pile of muddy shoes. There are two unfinished quilts on my couch, and four more in my sewing chest, and a sleeping baby on my lap. My home is full of dreams.


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