Linda McCullough Moore

I'm walking down my Main Street in the Februar y dark, that greedy New England nighttime that will hog the last part of ever y winter afternoon. It's five-thirty on a Wednesday and the air is cold and damp, and I am on my way to a shop they call Essentials to buy two dozen candles for a wrought iron chandelier I bought today. I pass our resident steel drummer whose thin tin rhythm makes me think about long under…