Someone is looking back at me, and often I look away. I do not revel in the person I see, nor have I ever. They have always been someone I’ve disliked, even if people tell me otherwise. I try to look at them with kind eyes, but too often is it sadness, or disgust, or something akin to anger, frustration. There is no beauty there, no softness or reflection of what I had come to know as beauty. I ha...

The wind smells familiar; a heady, grassy scent, one reliant upon the weekly cut of grass at the cemetery across the street. Just down the road from home, adjacent from the cemetery, is a field where a group of children play. A sunset settles over the lot, turning the bright green of grass and deep orange of the clay into shadowed hues. The children are covered in dirt and grime, grass stains ador...