fantasy – scribo ad LX

Snow, Shovel, A Small Boy

I watched from the window as my nine-year-old grandson, Parth, stepped out into the freshly fallen snow, shovel in hand, as though answering a quiet summons. The driveway lay thick and white, unblemished, still wearing the hush of night. He was alone, valiantly so—scooping, lifting, pushing—his small boots sinking into the softness, his breath foggingContinue reading “Snow, Shovel, A Small Boy”

Sycamore: A Tree, A World, A Wound

In the Shadow of the Sycamore Two tall and stately Sycamore trees stand magnificently at the far end of the lawn in my son’s opulent home — guardians of grace, stretching skyward in noble stillness. They are unlike any tree I had encountered up close: pale-barked, broad-limbed, with a silvery elegance that seems toContinue reading “Sycamore: A Tree, A World, A Wound”