Author: Hannah (page 6 of 9)

Wrong Side of the Mountain

It’s a graceful wasteland with trees reaching like warped fingers from the undulating rock face. They’re craggy and wind-whipped, the kind that look most alive when crowned with buzzards. Orion toddles at my side, unaware that the sun baking the abandoned rock rectangles is going to set soon. The blank sky glares over the former rock quarry, and I have no idea where I am. Continue reading

How Lucky

Norm Fintel considered himself lucky on the day that he died. He told his nurse, “I think I’m one of the only people that can say if I could go back, I wouldn’t change a single thing. How lucky am I.” This was after a lifetime of spreading that luck in the form of wisdom and compassion. He wove a large, adoring family and a profound legacy from the fibers of faith, vision, and work. He was Robby’s grandfather, and I wanted to write down everything he ever told me. Continue reading

Nightmares of Heaven

In my dream, I died. I instantly sat up and looked around, where a girl I might have grown up with said, “This is heaven.” Heaven was my apartment. I slid out of bed and walked across the floor, thinking the real heaven might be in the living room. It wasn’t. Continue reading

On Folding and Magic

The first time I visited Robby’s dorm room in college, my jaw dropped. The place smelled like detergent and featured a crisply made bed. His desk held two large, shiny computer screens and his wardrobe was tightly closed. Even the rug was spotless. I plopped on his bed and asked him what color his day was. As we talked, he plucked a pair of khakis from his laundry hamper and unfurled them loudly to banish the wrinkles. Then, he folded them lengthwise, pulled the legs taut, and straightened the inseam. Continue reading

The Beautiful Truth

A month ago, one of my adorably few friends in Atlanta invited me to her friend’s apartment. The studio layout was complete with high ceilings, exposed beams, salvaged artsy furniture, and an abundance of dead flowers and smoking devices. I stood among four women, passing a bottle of Evan Williams around a high table and talking about love. The dull wood displayed a collection of candles melting into one another like an oozing heart. Continue reading
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