Author: Loren Smith

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1962. Every Friday evening, I found an excuse to walk past the little ice cream shop on Lake Street. Not because …

Sixty-three years after my first love disappeared from my life, one sentence written on the back of a bingo card revealed that neither of us had ever stopped writing—the truth had simply never reached us. Read More