by Tom Walsh

Tomorrow, we’ll pull on our boots, roll up our sleeves, and pick through the cinders of the shop where we lathed bowls, clocks, and cradles from redwood and cedar and sold memories to decades of tourists. We’ll be stoic, check our emotions. But tonight, we hold hands on a cliff overlooking the beach where we fell in love. Smoke hides the stars, but diamonds are patient.

Tom Walsh writes these days from Cambridge, MA. He’ll always hold a special place in his heart for the redwoods of Humboldt County. His stories can be found in Emerge, Hobart Pulp, Lost Balloon, JMWW, Bending Genres, HAD, Flash Frog, and elsewhere. Say hi @tom1walsh.bsky.social.