Mallory

Mallory Lynn at one day old.  I'm a great-uncle now.

Winter; Outskirts of Boston

We crawled home, delirious with Belgian drink;  our lips hop-encrusted, laces caked with snow.  The midnight streets of Brookline looped bare before us.  We'll be back, but not before another winter storm splits its belly over the city.  Come morning we will wake to a silent nightmare; 100 miles to go on bald tires, over unplowed highways.

Here We Go Again