I WRITE BECAUSE
I write to remember the obese old man I saw at the coffee shop who took up a four seat table with opened books and a grande coffee and his computer which was playing World War Two footage that he listened to with orange headphones. He seemed as much a fixture there in the middle of the room as the espresso maker that could simultaneously make a latte and cappuccino, an americano and a decaf. I write because... read more
I am staying in the bedroom of a twelve-year-old. My goddaughter’s domain is a cross between a doll house and a cupcake shop, with every surface an altar to the things, people and places she loves. A menagerie of animal figurines surrounds the flat base of the lamp, a bulletin board brims with cards and illustrated lists of “favorites,” little clay sculptures cluster around a vase of feathers. Owls blink... read more
I can feel it here, the little girl longing to crawl on Daddy’s lap, the lover who wants to be slipped a room key. I notice his hands first, my favorite kind—broad, strong, long-fingered, used here to gesture and turn pages, but capable hands that could hold a sheep’s legs while shearing, gentle enough to ease a lamb out of a stuck birth canal.
I want him to focus on her, the woman beside me with the aquiline nose and unlined skin, the glossy black hair and thin limbs, adorned in skinny jeans that end smartly at high heeled boots. The woman who knew the origin of ... read more
Angel of Mercy see me standing in the kitchen cutting carrots or grating cheese. It is five o’clock, five thirty perhaps, my sons come and sit on the bar stools. They ask what is for dinner, one tells me he doesn’t like onions which lie waiting in line for my knife, the other asks when I will make enchiladas, clearly not on the menu tonight. They begin to debate which football team is best, a sparring that deteriorates to “Stupid” and “Mommmmm!” until one pushes the other off his stool. Do you see, Sister of Beatitude... read more