We both fried apples for our guests on the same night. No doubt her slices fell faster, cleaner into the pan Dad bought her, now dark and worn like her fingers, while mine limped with spots of red skin still on their backs, into the pan Dad bought me, shining on the stove. Our houses smelled the same that night, 800 miles apart, with our apples softening in cinnamon- sprinkled butter-and- brown sugar syrup, just like she taught me.  ...

Our spirits sang on the water, and the water sang with us.   It was the water that identified our voices. On a hotter-than-usual August day, in the middle of a dryer-than-usual summer, it summoned us, including the self-conscious, the sanitary and the serious, to live from the very centers of our hearts.   We secretly hoped our canoes would capsize.   * * *   What is it about floating around in willow leaf-shaped boats on a river no more than a deeper and wider creek that’s so exhilarating and exciting? That day we were pictures in magazines, characters in a make-believe movie. We...

This afternoon I held a tiny brown-skinned baby in my arms, his soft face scrunched with the intensity of sleep. His shining black hair, like loosely curled threads of silk, barely covered his head. As I cradled him in my lap, his sweet-spirited grandmother, who was in town all the way from Tanzania, Africa, brought steaming cups of African spiced tea into the living room. She sat beside me, and I passed the precious infant to her so I could sample black tea blended with the foreign spices.   It was as wonderful and refreshing as the African culture of hospitality that I was experiencing for the...

(for Stephen)   smile rare and delicate like sweet pears in winter, soft vanilla cream cheeks   sliding–board nose that shyly kissed Grandma’s   little lily the sun comes out when you open your petals    

moonrise over central park, stark branches reaching into the almost- dark sky: forks of night against one night in december, the path light from the glow of the lamps: sight of feet on silent stone. muffled sound of traffic from the street: alone, just us to walk across the park at dusk.  

1.   The sun set over the bay as the violins worked themselves into a feverish melody fire on fire bow on strings sun over water fire igniting fire music the orange-rose sun the almost silent tap-tap of water melting into sand and reed-filled marshes the gentle ripples covered with countless lines of pink orange yellow all pale and moving and blending and perfect. I thought of you immediately (I always do).   2. What has happened to the simplicity of life, of living? A string of motorcycles blasts down a palm-lined, dusk-filled street previously quiet in the presence of evening. Just across...