Blog : Beautiful-Things
Nails
| January 27, 2020 My mother’s fingernails were sculpted and strong—not like salon nails, more like the backs of beetles. Every Saturday night she’d paint them for Mass the next day—usually deep red, her favorite color.
Atlantis
| January 20, 2020 "Because, what if they don't turn out okay?" The question, posed by my 14-year old daughter, hung in the air as we drove past the park after school late one afternoon. I was talking about motherhood, and she matter-of-factly justified her plan...
Jasmine
| January 13, 2020 He's outside, singing. On the record player, Sinatra spins. Next, it will be Pavarotti. Maybe a big-band soundtrack. Whatever the treasure, he will make a big show of dusting off and placing a needle upon before heading back to his garden.
Home to Roost
| January 6, 2020 I liked the hens, with their kind eyes and soft, red feathers. I was seven, and I wanted to sleep with them, to nestle with them, because they felt like a dozen mothers, all watching out for me.
Here. Look.
| December 30, 2019 My husband hadn't meant to render us in silhouette. He was a novice, the camera new and heavy in his hands. As we gazed out the window he didn't realize that by aiming toward it, into the sun, he'd cast us in shadow, erasing specifics.
Floodscape
| December 23, 2019 On a winter's sunny day, I can see the Minnesota River shimmering a quarter mile away--past the trail at the base of our hill, over the pond, beyond the meadow, between the walnut trees. Come spring, there is imbalance--too much snow...
Woods Cove
| December 16, 2019 My younger sister who is dead of cancer now is returning to the tide pools soon because I'm going to bring her. I'm going to put her back, or something meaning her, which is a palmful of calcium phosphate and sodium, powdery ash...
It Happened in Brooklyn
| December 9, 2019 They fell in love back when Brooklyn had trolley cards. He taped her photograph to the inside of his military locker. When the war ended...
Stray
| December 2, 2019 She was over dogs when one appeared by their table at a beachside cafe. Strays roamed everywhere in Nosara, breedless, leashless wonders. This one had some pit bull and Corgi. Her husband thought hound. Pointy ears, long snout...
Offering
| November 25, 2019 Just twelve people. People I didn’t know from Adam. I could have refused. Could've shaken my head and deferred to any one of them. Inside me, I felt a squeezing in my chest.
Home
| November 18, 2019 It was just a gray concrete shell, wrapped with chain link fence. A dream home, unfinished, left to sun, dust, and rain. Around it, pastel mansions with swimming pools, iron gates, and razor wire.
A Loss for Words
| November 11, 2019 This Chinese bowl, smooth in my hands, white as bone, entwined with blue dragons, reminds me of my friend Joyce's mom. Faizai she'd christened me. Fatso. (The Cantonese more affectionate than its English equivalent.)
Weight of Bones
| November 4, 2019 A loon is not crazy for spending more time in the water than in the air, though the other birds may think so. He is made for it. Unlike his feathered brethren, his bones are solid. He relies on their weight to defy the buoyancy of water...
Collision
| October 28, 2019 I have questions: What would cold steel feel like on the back of my skull? How many bones would shatter? Where would I land?
Beach Day
| October 21, 2019 Blue skies, blazing sun, of course. But honestly, it was a perfect day for fleeing steaming city streets, freezing corporate offices, our apartment, where a stuffed hippo and a crocheted blanket menaced. Everything had changed.
Scent's Memory
| October 14, 2019 "What's the word where it reminds you of a long time ago?" I'm trying to get us out of the house and I know I sound impatient when I respond. "Nostalgia?" "Yeah," he says, "I love that smell."
Clementine Time
| October 7, 2019 There is no time but the time in the kitchen. My father loses track of days, and I buy a "clock" whose only hand moves from Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday, as if distinguishing between the days were important.
Simplify, Simplify
| September 30, 2019 This could be the morning I slide out the door instead of back under sheets and escape before I drink my coffee. My arms unburdened, no one calling me back, no shame or remorse to shadow my escape. Away.
Chosen for Something
| September 23, 2019 Sometimes as a child I would brush my grandfather's thinning hair. He was a long haul trucker turned Pentecostal preacher who mostly showed affection through prayer and cash money, both of which he handed out at random to his grandkids.
Footfalls
| September 16, 2019 On the plane home, out the window, all I see is empty sky. As a girl, when talk of dying arose, I always gazed up to where I am now, drifting past the tops of snowy clouds.
Sneakers in Sand (repeat)
| September 9, 2019 The baby's shoes were nowhere. That morning was spent in the chaotic swirl of cleaning and packing the vacation house
Ritual (repeat)
| September 2, 2019 Most nights I nurse my four-month-old daughter to sleep. The internet connection is terrible in our bedroom, the light thrown by the little green glass lamp not enough to read by, so I end up sitting in the semi-dark, looking across the bed to the window, or down upon the face of my baby in her steady, drowsy pleasure.
Mars and a Reflection of Mars (repeat)
| August 26, 2019 "There are two red planets tonight," I say. And you reply, "What a brave universe." And I feel brave. Two 30-lb packs hang near the tent we pitched just before it got dark enough to need headlamps. It’s Night One of this backpacking trip.
The End of the Movie (repeat)
| August 19, 2019 Today: summer afternoon on the front porch as thunderheads grow over the top of a giant oak. In the yard you perform perfect cartwheels, your legs long and straight in the air.
Bare, Naked (repeat)
| August 12, 2019 Rain falls, dimpling puddles. I kick off my clogs. My toenails shine like sparkling pumpkin peel. I slide my underwear and jeans down my legs, unsnap my bra, pull my sweatshirt over my head, lay my folded clothes on my shoes.
The Teacups (repeat)
| August 5, 2019 At the boardwalk, everything is past its prime: sweating hot dogs, mashed bags of cotton candy, melting ice cream. The workers move by rote--lifting and lowering the gate, pulling up on harnesses, scanning tickets. I slump in line.
Playboy (repeat)
| July 29, 2019 When my mother caught Chris and me looking at Playboy, we knew we were in trouble, but to my surprise she did not get angry. She took me into the house and pulled out the large glossy art books with paintings by the Impressionists.
Stand Up Tall
| July 22, 2019 My father turns his head, puts me on the floor, opens the screen, and walks out the back door. Just the silhouette of the bare trees shadowing night's sky is all I can see. I stand there for long minutes listening as night whispers peace.
Those Days
| July 15, 2019 In 1976, when you were still alive, I wrecked my car on 14th Street in D.C. on our first date.
Rocks
| July 8, 2019 Gravel dots her fingertips, her knees, the edges of her yellow dress. She runs along the parked RV, the sun hanging low above its roof. She bends and picks up a pebble; it stretches along the small of her hands. Her arm cocks back as she eyes me, smiles.
