While we can’t forever capture in amber all that passes through time, what we can do is hope for the Resurrection and leave mementos of ourselves for those that follow.
On May 20, 1945, days after the end of World War II, my mother’s Aunt Anne was shot in both legs by a Communist gunman in Yugoslavia and left for dead.
I do not know much about gods; but I think that the river Is a strong brown god— . . . Unhonoured, unpropitiated By...