The Kivi Weeks Blog!

When I’m making my great-grandmother Dorcas’s hot fudge recipe, I feel connected to her in a way I usually don’t. I never knew her; she died when my mom was only nine years old. But I do know a few stories about her, though. Unlike the grandmother cliché, she was a notoriously bad cook. Dorcas could also be delightfully vindictive: she got her colorblind husband—who was the town’s mayor and only doctor—a pink Cadillac after she found out he was cheating. Great-Grandpa Sam went to his grave thinking his car was tan. She had a reputation for being a very strong woman; my Grandpa John would affectionately call his mother domineering. In fact, Great-Grandpa Sam only felt strong enough to divorce Dorcas after she’d suffered a stroke. Awful, I know, but it shows just how strong-willed she was. Or maybe it shows how weak my great-grandfather was.   I also know that Dorcas was very dear to both my grandfather and his brother, so much so that both men asked their kids to name a grandda...

  There is a spot in the grass, where once a girl lay. The ewe remembers the girl’s feet kicking up dirt and stones as she ran through the  Night, from horrors a sheep cannot even imagine. The sheep remembers the terror in her face,  which is something so universal in animals, blood pouring from  wounds desperately attempting to knit themselves back together in time. A wooden spear clutched in her hand, dirt on her face red hair braided in the wind behind her. And the ewe remembers her falling with the arrow in her back, Face first in the muddy soil. The ewe remember the smell of flesh in the area, then the white stones which slowly sunk beneath the dirt and grass and now the sheep eats from the spot each time she sees it’s grown over again.  The ewe hopes the girl will one day rise up and continue to run, and the ewe knows she will have an easier time  if the grass has not grown up above her.