ABSTRACT
This morning as I sit in my New York City apartment and watch the snow falling past my windows, I feel a deep yearning in my bones for the hot pavement of summer streets in a little south Arkansas town that will always be home. I’m wandering around the apartment trying to enter a space where I can confront a ghost and I’m having a hard time of it. As I sit, finally, to read a few lines from Yonder, just to get the feel of Jim Corder’s language and the rhythm of his sentences playing through me, a deeper chill runs down my spine, and I realize that the socks I’ve pulled on to ward off the shivers will not do the job. I realize too why I have put it off so long, this act of recovery. I haven’t wanted to face the loss.
