Now there are creases that curvefrom the flanges of my noseto the scissure of my lips.And a deep cleft, like somethingleft by a hatchet,above the bridge of my nose. The brusque, impersonal obstinacy of aging. Weeding around the bushes in frontof our house, I breathe in the slightly licoricescent of rotting leaves. Though it’s twilight, […]

Original source: https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2024/10/03/from-mojave-ghost-forrest-gander/