Wake of Dust

On Living: This was long after our beginning, well after our escape, and after our starting over.

Closing John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, I study its spine. It’s creased and the dried glue peels and sheds like the bark of a melaleuca tree. 

In one vibrant rush of memory, I see its faded spine in the little book- shop off Valencia Street in San Francisco. It laid on the bottom shelf. I already had five copies, but I couldn’t help myself. Each one is…