In Coles County, Illinois, the news came and farmers hitched up their buckboards and drove en masse across cold-looking fields to the little place where Sara Brush lived; she was Lincoln’s stepmother. They stood on the doorsill and they told her the tiding and her old leathery face did not change when she said: "I knowed when he went away that he would never come back."
A newspaper is lumber made malleable. It is ink made into words and pictures. It is conceived, born, grows up and dies of old age in a day.
True love is night jasmine, a diamond in darkness, the heartbeat no cardiologist has ever heard. It is the most common of miracles, fashioned of fleecy clouds a handful of stars tossed into the night sky.
