Snag
By Jill McCabe Johnson
I put her to bed, frail as a torn rag,
and tried to erase the images
of her rickety legs at the edge of the chair,
my hands under her bony seat,
Author Archive
Aunt Mila
By Jill McCabe Johnson
Mila said she never trusted the clouds out in that country. In the summer they looked harmless enough, soft pillows or feathery streaks, but it was their way of moving she distrusted, with no set path and no mountains to guide their course. Even after living there all her adult life, she said, she still felt a little nausea, like motion sickness, just thinking about it.