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How a woman is like a rock
In the house of a girl who loves them, this one stands apart. She’s got ceramic dishes, jars and Tupperware full of rocks and stones (though she’d need to Google to know the difference between the...
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On being boxed in
For the last weeks, Sici’s collected boxes. One fits inside another inside another. She will wrap them in different papers, and her friends will unwrap one at a time, passing the square around the...
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The path that runs between
I walk down the paved road that runs parallel to the shore, then cross over the bridge where the men wait over crab nets and talk about how long they’ve been there and how they’ve yet to catch one. I...
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The Frame
We zoom in. We squint. We tilt heads and thrust necks forward. We walk to the next case, the next frame and hold hands behind our backs so as to notice without touching the strokes of oil, the blended...
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Drinking from the cup
Finger wrapped steam curls toward wood beams, this holy morning fragrance mingled with words and some tears and knit brows and shoulder shaking gold Lives, lots, portions in earthen containers and...
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Cookie dough in the morning – A Concrete Words guest post at Six in the Sticks
Welcome to those joining for the first time today from the blog of the lovely Nacole Simmons at Six in the Sticks. I’m honored to be guest posting there, along with others who are linking up their...
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Five Minute Friday: Listen
It’s ironic that when we sat on those sticky bench seats, and you and I met face to face for the first time in that big van on the way to Mexico, it was I who listened to you for so many hours. As you...
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The Date That Almost Wasn’t (31 Days of Right Here: Day 14)
We returned about 25 minutes ago from a long weekend with my sister and her family in Central Oregon. We feel full. From minestrone soup and brownies and nest building under the pine trees and running...
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The Making of a Mother
It began with a rush and a flood and a steady slow trickle. It began in spinning anxieties and a heart that pounded fierce love and basked in her eyes, little neck and gurgles like wet birds. It began...
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Opening our rusty gates and why it matters
We’re creaky, a little worse for wear, orangey rough sharp edges. When you open us up like gates, we make a racket and feel some embarrassed, like maybe we should have buffed out the bumpy parts and...
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