He could see the constant worry I had on my face about almost everything. He was right, we had been fine, even as the crack in my windshield grew by the day. I don’t know why, but it prompted something in me. Something I’d been meaning to say for a while.
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She remained quiet, and looked around a few moments; to the side of the highway, behind us, and out in front of us. She raised a hand, and pointed a bony, arthritic finger in a northern direction, and said, “Shonto.”
Frost-fractured streets, a patchwork quilt of cracks,As winter’s icy grip leaves Rochester’s roads ransacked.Potholes swallow tires, suspension springs recoil,Commuters swerve and dodge, a treacherous urban foil.But spring’s thaw brings promise, a chance to mend,As asphalt fills the gaps where winter did rend.The city crews in reflective vests toil long,Repairing, repaving, making the streets strong.Though scars … Continue reading Edit My Review
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In the mountains of North Carolina lies a small town secluded by fresh green oak trees and lined with dirt paths called Murphy. In Murphy everybody knows everybody because ‘downtown’ consisted of five stores and two bars; in a town so small, there isn’t a lot of room for hostility. I’ll never forget a trip I took to murphy when I was five because it was one of the only trips I remember with my entire family.
But then something odd happened. One morning as I was pulling myself together for the day, I ran across a file for Louis Armstrong and His Hot Five on my laptop, hit play, and felt the world stop. I’d listened to those recordings a thousand times. But there in Damascus, a city that somehow manages to give off both Biblical and East-Germany-in-the-70s vibes, it sounded different. It sounded like it fit. There amidst the minarets, I’d stumbled upon my own call to prayer.
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