The van, the canyon, the pie.
June taught school for most of her life. Now there's a teal camper van, a silk headscarf, big black sunglasses and a slice of pie in a diner booth with the desert going orange out the window. She writes on the van step at sunset. By a fire in the snow. Once, in a raft in the rapids, with three people screaming around her.
For years, what she wrote was for somebody else. Report cards. Notes home. You have your own version: permission slips, thank-you cards, the calendar on the fridge. One woman put it this way in a comment in October: "I'm turning 69 and thought I would do something different in my life."

