But I have more serious concerns, mon pere, than the misbehaviour of a few unruly brats.
In memory of my great – grandmother,
Marie Andre Sorin (1892–1968)
confetti sleeting down collars and cuffs and rolling in the gutters like an idiot antidote to winter.
Faces are lined like last summer’s apples, eyes pushed into wrinkled flesh like marbles into old dough.
. It’s as good a place as any.
