Chipmunks and small birds flit beyond the shoulder of death. My father would interrupt my clumsy cobbling of life-memory-love professions with a chuckle and point to the antics of the tiny, striped, tumbling acrobatics in…
Browsing Category prose
my own footsteps
When I was 7, I’d rally a small neighborhood troop, To carve a tunnel through the blackberry bramble. Lift the warmed wooden lids off garden snake traps. Part overhead golden grasses in search of field…
seeking a mindful minute
I’m remembering, The unwritten life is fast food eaten standing up. A mindless conveyor motion of bits to mouth. Yet the primary ingredient of memory, I’m certain, is reflection. And the unwritten is the unreflected….
#nofightsworthwinning
I have four arms, four legs and forty fingers and toes. And I have two hearts, two blood types, and two brains. The latter a valid reason, I protest, for my constant state of indecision….
domestic love crumbs
MY CHILD’S CRY STIRS ME FROM BED. After he’s soothed, I crawl back under the cooled covers and just barely register the time on the clock: 5:30am. But my brain has already stirred and my…
stirrings of the other side
MY MEMORIES OF STAYS AT BORDER TOWNS ARE CONSISTENTLY DINGY. There seemed to more litter in the streets. And more stray dogs picking through it. The rooms were bare and broken, with cracks highlighted by…
goodnight lawn-mower
my 2-year old, every night, soothes himself to sleep by recounting the objects and events that have made an impression on his day… “goodnight motorcycle” “goodnight bumble bee” “goodnight thunder” “goodnight lawn-mower” (If you haven’t…
the intimacy of loss
You know what people don’t tell you about? The intimacy of tragedy. The collapse into the lap of your lover; not in elated exertion…. but in grief. The speechlessness; not of direct eye contact……