51
May 14, 2021
I finish braiding Riley’s hair for school; she likes one thick rope down her back, the elastics double tightened, and I smile because already tiny errant curls have begun to escape around her face. Already, the freer part of her has begun to defy strict boundaries. Sometimes when she feels overwhelmed, she pushes those rebels […]
52
Apr 30, 2021
Fresh from the shower on an 80-degree day that feels thick with the promise of Summer, Adam spins–literally–into the kitchen wearing flannel pajama pants–buffalo check–and a salt-washed long-sleeved t-shirt as blue as his eyes. I wonder how he doesn’t instantly feel that sticky prickle of after-shower sweat at the base of the neck and the […]
53
Apr 16, 2021
Riley sits at the bar, fresh-faced and bright, if still a little rumpled with sleep. She looks like Spring, like the first day of sapphire skies; like new flowers with blushing, velvet leaves; like anticipation; like hope sitting right there on a bench in my kitchen., and it’s striking to me because it’s the opposite […]
54
Dec 25, 2020
The grass glitters with frost, twinkling Messiah-lights that will remain long after Christmas. Long after we have packed away our bulbs and vacuumed away all traces of the tree; after we, traveling on to January, have stopped announcing our King, all creation still will proclaim His praise in a language understood in every nation. I […]
55
Nov 13, 2020
That breeze today, it tickles my cheeks, warm Autumn winds dancing over rising hills, an invisible thumb tracing the lines of my face. I press my hand flat against the pages to keep them from drifting up. That hand, it’s my mother’s hand, perpetually tanned, rooted with veins like a stretch of earth beneath a […]
56
Oct 16, 2020
When we arrive, the rustic man from whom we rented the cabin waits, rising to lumber out to the door. His eyes are blue, cool and vibrant like the snatch of sky I glimpse above the mountains. In some ways, he is those mountains, sloped and capped in silver cloud, monochrome and rumpled in the […]
57
Oct 9, 2020
He doesn’t want to cut the bushes. “Please don’t cutting the bushes,” Adam says to me first thing when I walk in the kitchen on Saturday morning, bending low as though unless he’s close to my ear I might not hear, that voice of his deep and gentle. I glance at the white board where […]
58
Aug 28, 2020
Outside, rain softly falls, soothing sheets like curtains on every side of the porch, and I sit still, watching. Late afternoon, and God has made a few moments for me to notice the gathering puddles, to trace the splash of drops from finger lengths of upturned leaves, rolling down, down to drip or, finally, to […]
59
Aug 14, 2020
Robert Frost would be proud: Every night Adam roams and roams for miles before he sleeps, up and down the same stretch of hall, his heavy tread pressing the carpet flat, beating out a path. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. In muffled pilgrimage, he travels overhead, across the living room ceiling and back […]
60
Jul 10, 2020
In the morning, we friends gather on Zoom, collecting on a screen the way we once surrounded coffee shop tables, dropping handbags on the floor, dragging over extra chairs, only now new windows open into presence in front of us like blinking eyes, and here I sit at home with my wet-from-the-shower hair, and we […]