Don’t you think we come to the beach because we want to stop moving? The road ends, we can’t go any farther, we are forced to stop. To finally be still.
In eliminating poetry from our lives, we miss discovering a pursuit of pleasure that we didn’t even know we needed.
The pictures may look the same on screen, but we can no longer legitimately call them “films.”
From the living room, which faces east, they’ll see it rise. I’ll bet it’ll be bright. I’ll bet it’ll be beautiful.
Before I was old enough for midnight movies or grown-up parties or Champagne dinners, I spent every New Year’s Eve at my grandmother’s house.
It’s becoming so clear to me that real gifts aren’t the ones under the tree.
I thought about all the people who carry scars others can’t see. About how we go on anyway, with courage, with strength, with our heads held high.
In 1988, I slapped an Appalachian State University sticker on the rear window of my car and headed west to the mountains. I drove away from my home in Randolph County, down U.S. Highway 64, and past the Uwharries, which, until my college years, had been the highest peaks I’d ever seen. On move-in day, … Continued
On the places where the colorless veil of memory lifts, and the past stares back at us, all dressed up and looking every bit as beautiful as we remember.