sTORIES FROM THE
CENTER OF THE STORM
discovering joy in every molecule
I was cold and a little lost too. This powerhouse baby shaman crawled into my heart via french fries and chilly tiny fingers.
“Fatman don’t want you to see her.” His sister tells me, frankly. Even though Fatman continues to stand within precise french fry distance to me, even though he’s covering his eyes with interlaced backwards fingers so his cold little knuckles are pressed to his eyes while he chews the single warm fry I just gave him.