A covid-19 Moment In My Life
It’s chilly in my New England writing studio this afternoon, April 10, in the Year of covid-19.
Grey skies, intermittent snowflake-hail showers, tree limbs still bare and bent by the wind. Perhaps it’s time to rev up my fake, gas-fed wood stove, minus the quintessential smell of oak drying in the basket as wood smoke snaked out of the cast-iron door no matter how quickly I tried to shut it.
