We pass other boats and, from each one, there is the double-take, a stare. Two boats full of only black people is apparently a rare sight.
We were three single Americans with a whiskey handle. What reception would we wake to if we fall asleep on the wrong sand?
The roadside cross is a jarring balance of the emotional poles, internal and external, surely an action by and for the remaining soul—not the one who has departed.
For me, loss of faith was hollowing. Can you believe in miracles without believing in God?
Collecting and burning wood, I felt close to my family. It was something tangible, something that kept us warm.
“The feeling of being out on my own is worth all the fear I must fight to get there.”