One of the more unfortunate things I inherited from my ex was the desire for homeownership. In the early heady weeks of the relationship, as we stayed up all night in inexhaustible confession, he described at length his yearning for a home after he had split from his family, how he had traveled far and wide to find the house of his dreams, how much personal charm it had taken to nail the negotiation. What was more, it was set in a prime location in an up-and-coming city that would guarantee a …
Unspooled
Mulberries grow in deep pockets of my memories. The sepals turned fleshy and purple, tight as brains. As children, my brother and I made clubhouses in the mulberry shrubs on the campus where our father taught. Curtained and cool in the heat of the quad. My brother, who never made it out of childhood, believed the shrubs were time machines, taking us back to a time before sidewalks and cut lawns and flagpoles, before mail in the post office box and paninis at the campus cafe. He’d push the …
The Green Light
To mix a cocktail is to tell a story. Each bottle you pour from has a history, some mundane and some grandiose. And when you combine each ingredient, whether to create a classic of the trade or something new, the finished product inherently takes on life. Narrative. The Manhattan, for example. The first time that a bartender plucked the whiskey and the sweet vermouth and the bitters from their shelf, stirred the ingredients over ice, and strained the dull red concoction into a coupe, they …
A Daughter Dreams of Her Mother’s Death
My dream begins like a fairy tale. Wild wolves are in the house—not tame ones, like the insipid talker that seduced the girl in red—but loud, howling wolves. Their mouths open, their teeth gleaming. A whole pack of them disrupting a party my mother has planned for weeks. They tear through the buffet: the carefully arranged relish tray, perfectly seasoned chicken casserole, elaborately decorated raspberry torte. Not to mention what they do to the guests. Terrorizing people I don’t even …
Rusty Pipes
Our synapses start firing as we form and recollect anecdotes or events that have impacted us throughout our lives. We lose and regrow important brain connections that may lead to a forgotten smile or worse. There is a certain amount of suspension of disbelief when we listen to a recounting of such stories, especially when the elocutionist is a charming storyteller, past his centennial year. I hate to admit that part, questioning how clear or fuzzy a memory appears. Most of the time, it isn’t …
Uruguay Sojourns
In the goldening late afternoon sun, screeching green loros fly from tree to eucalyptus tree. A boy rides a white horse bareback down a dirt street. · Now cricket song swells in the rose-brushed twilight reflected upon the steady river. There chiquilines (children) skins sun-toasted, still play in the waters. . The near-full moon whitens the dense brush. Frogs have joined that grillo chorus. . In the midst of this starry night, I hear the sputtering …