POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
There are roses in the dining room. And here on my desk. All coming with an apologies for the awkwardness of acknowledging a pain that is all to common but still taboo. I am grateful for the flowers, the expressions of condolence. 33 years of estrangement is in itself a very long grieving process. And…
Just as I rest my fingers on the keys, a freight train rumbles by. I think of a shower curtain being pulled open – metal rings sliding on a metal rod. Let’s get started with the day. Leonard comes in to thank me for breakfast. He does that by rubbing his face on my legs…
Leonard is getting used to the 4:30 walk, the new route, the passing freight train. Every morning is a little darker. But I’m guessing it means every morning brings a little more mystery, a little more of a demand to focus, to be alert. Alert but not alarmed. Not on guard. Not braced. That’s all…
There are days that mark distinct lines in our lives. Like rings in trees that tell the story of how difficult a year was, how dry or how suddenly cold. The obvious vehicle for the metaphor would be our hearts: what is “written on our hearts”. But I believe that the stories are what shape…