Daybreak dog jog with my kids, the quadripeds. My frayed wool gloves match the crystalline sky. After yesterday’s 20-raindrop “storm,” the desert smells like cat piss.
On the trail where Max first found a granite stone etched with the letters “F-E-T” he spies another beneath a half-dead creosote bush.
On this stone, “L-I-F-E-T-I.” And so, we graduate from Wordle to Scrabble.
Maybe a series, thinks the writer in me. And a smile, for the love of words—that torch passed down by family writers who came before—does not end with me. I’ve unleashed the legacy.