“Strange men. Is there any other kind?” she sighed, scanning the row of heavy, shaggy heads bent over the bar rail. Continue reading
Mavis counted on it: No decision, no responsibility.
Mavis lifted a brow. “Do we let ‘em in the boat?” Continue reading
I see you through the light canopy that enshrouds the bed, your cheek a false pink from yesterday’s gathering of early spring blooms. Sun shines bright through the window panes, warming the edge of your pillow. Wrapped up in a light duvet, its cover pale blue and patterned with tiny flowers, soft contrast to our sturdy wooden bed, you roll away from the light. Shall I throw open the windows and let the Green Man in?
Silence all around, but for the slow creak of frogs from the moonlit marsh, and the crackle and sudden pop from the dwindling campfire. A late night wind twined soothing fingers through the dark pines, but hesitated and hovered above the group gathered below.
This is my portion of the eulogies written for my dad, Kjeld Oddvar Husebye, born August 11, 1925 and died January 2, 2015, after a very long struggle with cancer.