Sarah Johnson

The Perpetual Villa

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“Il y a longtemps,” I repeated. “A long time ago.” My French felt clumsier every minute. Renard Busquet, leading me through the pearl-gray dimness of the silent east wing, let his own native Poitevin French drop like a thin stream of Vouvray wine. “A long time… Tell me again how your honored ancestor sat in … Read more

Winter When Thy Face is Hid

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I was so tired, Tuesday night. Don’t sleep well when I get that tired. I have obsessive dreams and wake up later than usual. And sleeping in always makes my head hurt. I was clumsy tired, where you bump into things; and getting into bed, I whacked it. The big clunky picture frame hanging over … Read more