
Blood, Ash, Tears: The Ashiest Of Days by Elizabeth Glass Turner
We are too removed from ash. Our furnaces soil our hands only as much as a stray clump of dust falls from the filter when we wrinkle our nose and change it with another high-efficiency, allergen-reducing plane of fibers designed to keep our lives clean. Maybe there’s a stray bonfire, an occasional fireplace mess that dirties our palms or leaves









