All summer, I’ve been writing a messy love letter in my head about this very moment, whatever the one is that my body is actually in. The one where I’m kneeling over the roses in the picket fence garden, right off the front porch, examining the underside of every leaf for sawfly slugs gnawing up the possibility of any more unfurling blooms, or the moment every morning where I soak nine alfalfa cubes in a pot of warm water, to carry out on a thrifted platter to my pregnant ewe, Jewel, as h...
