A bitter, stupid wind blows over the ridge and down through the pines surrounding our cabin. It is purposeless. The snow has already been scoured from the frozen soil, and the temperature is dramatically below freezing so we’re not going outside, anyway. This wind doesn’t even whistle through the boughs; it just creates a
Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter,
Eliza Jane pressed the down button for the elevator and waited patiently as the cables began drawing the small cab up the shaft to the second floor of the old house. As the doors opened, she stepped inside and pressed the button marked “B” (she’d always called the underground floor the “cellar,” but no matter).