No one ever told me that hands become gnarly after too much time in the sun.

My hands are as gnarly as the bark on an old oak tree.

But, at least they’re sun-kissed – the color of a beige antique car.

My hands soar when a story strives to alight from my funny, surprising brain, a brain that is awash with jangled memories and silly jokes, serious worries and spurts of light-filled love. Continue reading →