by Sherrie Cassel The psychedelic lights undulate on my office ceiling. Springsteen is lightly playing his harmonica, and I am grateful…a sixty-three-year-old hippie wannabe. I wasn’t old enough to be truly aware of the bombs bursting in midair. What does it mean to “lose someone in the war” when you’re only five years old? I’veContinue reading “Emily Dickinson”