and my mother buried him at the Waynesville cemetery in a double plot with a pair of tombstones, one for him and an unmarked slab waiting for her, and my father became a crow in the red maple behind the house in Hazelwood, and my mother lived another thirty years and waited for the day when she would lay down again with my old man. And sometimes my father would call her and sometimes she would pack a picnic lunch and sit outside sharing a pb & j and a slice of Dad’s favorite cherry pie. And often, she would be scolded with a caw from the telephone line running to the back of the kitchen. And she didn’t mind when my father stole the seeds for the smaller birds she kept in the bird-feeder hanging from the maple all winter long.…
The latest resolution composed at 0549 on a Friday travelling 61 mph on the 405 as mist from trucks around me bathes my car in a benevolent poisonous rinse; this rain the first since April & so encumbered with unreasonable expectations similar to that of the first born to a failing monarchy; on it I do swear to refrain from writing anymore about birds. Or the moon.…
My mother comes from a long line of people who left everything behind. It’s impossible to talk about my mother, Angelica DeLaCaridad Gonzalez Bechtold, without talking about this history, all that came before her, and her own mother; Angelica DeLaCaridad Velazquez Gonzalez. From Castilian Spain her ancestors emigrated to the Canary Islands before settling in Cuba. Angie Senior left Cuba for New York and there gave birth to her three daughters, my mother as the first. There is much information I’ve gleaned only from the whispers and rumors of the occasional late-night conversation when even the Cubans forget their tight-lipped nature.
For a people so secretive and so seemingly willing to throw off the shackles of their history, Cubans are very proud of their heritage. When I got married, my wife kept her last name, and it prompted a story from my mother.…
As Vera stood at the threshold of the labyrinth in the hospital courtyard, she recalled when she first met Charles thirty years before. In 1990, “It’s Only Lunch” had just launched as a way for singles to meet over a meal. When Vera asked her date about the hobby on his profile, the bearded, lanky, serious-looking man shared his passion.
“A labyrinth is not the same as a maze,” said Charles. “By design, mazes confuse and have more than one pathway. You can actually get lost.” His deep voice resonated as if he were giving one of his math lectures at the university. “Labyrinths, on the other hand, create mental clarity and have only one way in and out. Did you know they’ve existed for over 4,000 years, and ancient ones exist worldwide?”…
At his desk early on Monday, scrolling through inbox crap from the weekend, Randy Wasserman made the mistake of opening a strange email in his junk file. In the preview, he could see the salutation invoking his high school nickname, ‘Waz’. Only somebody who knew him back in the day would use it. When Randy read the message and saw the sender’s name, Mike Thomas, he drew a blank. Zero memory of a Mike Thomas from Central High.
Oh, well. Randy patted the bald spot on the crown of his head. Everybody was having trouble with names these days. Later, sipping coffee with his weekly breakfast group, Randy turned the discussion to this phenomenon. He said, “It seems we’re at the age when long-lost acquaintances feel compelled to reach out and reconnect, for whatever reason.”…
The moon has shrunk itself into a single bright bead inside the porchlight—
like a thought I meant to finish, or an apology I kept editing until the meaning fell out.
It’s the porch of the blue house, the one just down the road from that whole Malibu dream
we tried to inhabit. And I keep replaying our first Halloween party,
remember? You in the ruby slippers, me in that stupid “KANSAS” tee in BRAT font, like I was auditioning to be a state you’d speed through on your way to someplace shinier.
We called the place “Maliboo”— yes, the pun, I know, I know, but back then nothing haunted us. Not really.
Only laughter slipping under the doorframes,
glitter welded to the baseboards, a bowl of punch glowing like liquid rubies on the kitchen table.…
