I used to tell myself I’d do things differently. I wouldn’t follow the same work-first rhythm I grew up with. Then I caught myself looking at my phone while my kids were talking to me. They waited for me to come back to the moment. That pause said more than any Harry Chapin song ever could.

He lived in a small flat above the cliff. A kettle on the stove. A window that watched the edge where rock meets water. When someone stood too near, he crossed the road. He offered tea and time. Simple moves. The kind that steady a shaking day. He’s gone now, though his legacy will last lifetimes.

Ça arrive sans heurts. On ne s'y attend pas. Un jour, quelque chose change, et l'air devient soudain plus lourd. J'avais cinq ans et je...

It was raining. One of those mornings where no one makes eye contact. Everyone just wants to get dry, find a seat, move on.

Mirror, mirror on the wall. I am my father after all. My father never really retired. He set one set of tools down, then picked up...

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