The darkness has a particular texture—velvety and alive—while the arrival of light is hopeful and promising. Pop—broad-shouldered, bald-headed, in a plaid flannel shirt—and the small blond child move through these pages like a compass and its needle, one steadying the other.
The darkness has a particular texture—velvety and alive—while the arrival of light is hopeful and promising.
Pop—broad-shouldered, bald-headed, in a plaid flannel shirt—and the small blond child move through these pages like a compass and its needle, one steadying the other.
Just the hiss of a truck heater and a thermos of cocoa too hot to drink.
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The darkness has a particular texture—velvety and alive—while the arrival of light is hopeful and promising. Pop—broad-shouldered, bald-headed, in a plaid flannel shirt—and the small blond child move through these pages like a compass and its needle, one steadying the other. Just the hiss of a truck heater and a thermos of cocoa too hot to drink.
Just the hiss of a truck heater and a thermos of cocoa too hot to drink. Kunkel's prose moves the way the journey does—unhurried and quiet. Their tenderness is conveyed through gestures: a large hand reaching across a dark room to wake a sleeping child, the child tucked under Pop's shoulder while they wait, two small, red-capped figures standing side by side when the geese finally come in waves of white.
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