Though we spent our first anniversary in Paris, we’d honeymooned in the Ozarks, in Ponca, Arkansas, not far from where we lived. When we drove home after our days in that rustic, rubble-wall hotel on the Buffalo River, we stopped in Berryville. For some reason I can’t recall, he needed to pick something up at a hardware store. He went… Read More
Everyone who doesn’t die young will someday have a motherless Mother’s Day. This will be my fourth. Two years ago, at the get-together after poet Miller William’s memorial, his daughter, singer/songwriter/musician Lucinda Williams, said to me, “You know what’s strange? I cried the day my father told me he was through writing poetry. Could no longer do it. I haven’t cried at all… Read More
“To me it seems that youth is like spring, an overpraised season– delightful if it happens to be a favored one, but in practice very rarely favored and more remarkable, as a general rule, for biting east winds than genial breezes.” This quote, from Samuel Butler’s The Way of All Flesh, was one of my late mother’s favorites. It came… Read More
I was recently reading James Woods’ marvelous story about his late mother. It’s a Personal History column in the New Yorker, titled “The Teacher.” He is describing her death, which was what people sometimes call a good death, and his peace with it (and her, despite her imperfections and the challenges her nature gave him as a son — as all parents… Read More
It was maybe three weeks after his sudden death; the first time I had been alone in the house, without someone staying over. At perhaps three in the morning, I realized it had been awhile since I had eaten anything. I thought, with a kind of detached, looking-down-on-myself kind of logic, ‘Perhaps you should eat something, Crescent.’ I opened the refrigerator…. Read More
Last Friday, I finally made it to my doctor’s office for a full physical. I had tried, sincerely, a few weeks earlier, on a hot, hot humid day. But only partially succeeded. A tree got in the way. But in a larger sense, perhaps, a tree was the way. Disruption. What a weird gift it is. *** If a tree falls “If… Read More
Note: This post is illustrated with photographs I took at the market in Nice, in 2014, when I was there for about a week with one of my oldest friends. It was my first long trip following the death of my mother in November 2013 and my partner in the March which followed, and in many ways it re-engaged me fully… Read More
“Is that your heart, or mine?” Here is when it began: a little after one in the morning. Here is where: in my bed, in Vermont, with my guy. I’m curled into him, my head resting on his shoulder, sleepy, happy. He says, “Mine.” I say, “Wow, it’s beating awfully fast, and hard.” *** I’m the one who first suggests… Read More
