Gail Folkins

After sitting down for dinner at Dad’s, we heard it, a call louder than our conversation and more insistent than the steaming squash and steak I’d been serving. More potatoes? I asked, not trusting what I’d heard, a dog-like cry biting into nightfall. Dad’s next-door neighbor Corinne looked up from her plate. Let’s go see, she said. She stood and walked to the deck without waiting for the rest of Read more of this blog post »