This page contains a Flash digital edition of a book.
When I was away, I missed you, my baby. You were there in all that I smelled. Warm cats and their kittens, who lay in the hay and gave rough-tongued baths. In a heap by a door, gardenia and lilac swept up by a broom. And diesel and sulfur in long smoky plumes. And the fresh, just-dressed, six a.m. air. But nothing smelled quite like the smell of your hair.


When I was away, I missed you, my baby. You were there in all that I touched. In the walls of buildings, cool with old stone. Bleached bones, sea foam and strange-looking coins. I held bright green bottles and bolts of gold cloth. And once, very gently, a great luna moth. I felt the hum of the city, the warm breath of the farm. But nothing as strong as your two little arms.


Page 1  |  Page 2  |  Page 3  |  Page 4  |  Page 5  |  Page 6  |  Page 7  |  Page 8  |  Page 9  |  Page 10  |  Page 11  |  Page 12  |  Page 13  |  Page 14  |  Page 15  |  Page 16  |  Page 17  |  Page 18  |  Page 19  |  Page 20  |  Page 21  |  Page 22  |  Page 23  |  Page 24  |  Page 25  |  Page 26  |  Page 27  |  Page 28  |  Page 29  |  Page 30  |  Page 31  |  Page 32  |  Page 33  |  Page 34  |  Page 35  |  Page 36  |  Page 37  |  Page 38  |  Page 39  |  Page 40  |  Page 41  |  Page 42