Brackish Water

This is a hard and exhilarating season. I am in between one life and another—not really, of course—not in the Samsara sense, or in the “I see a tunnel, and a bright light” sort of way. But I am nonetheless perched between my former life and my new one, at the age of 57, and I’m feeling a little like I’ve jumped into a river that is about to meet up with the enchanted sea but I’ve got to get out of the whirlpool I am in first. Let me explain.

I am only living in two geographic locations: Fresno and the bay area, but in the past week I have slept in five different beds, and I’ve been engaging in this sort of gypsy behavior for the past two months. I’ve started a new job in San Francisco, doing something I have never done before—teaching English courses to middle and high school Chinese-American students in a private learning institution. I am still trying to be proficient at using the bus, BART, and Muni to get me around, which has resulted in a couple of “Oh crap I’m on the wrong train” sort of moments, which aren’t terrible but at the end of a long work /travel day when it’s time to eat/pee/chill/sleep (none of which I can do on the BART—though some people do) it makes me feel stupid, and a little pathetic, sitting there with my suitcase at my feet and my smart phone in my hand; it makes me miss my husband, who I don’t see nearly enough these days. It makes me miss my dog.

I think I’m very tired.

One of the first things I learned from my beloved/irritating writing professor—who shall remain nameless but who, I will say, has an affinity for Melville and an aversion to the word “issues,” because, he claims, it’s a weak euphemism for what it really means, which is big fucking problems—is that writing is not therapy. Or, at least it’s not supposed to be a therapeutic endeavor. Is that what he was saying? I’m not really sure, even after hearing him say it repeatedly over a span of years. Because it never made sense to me. Like math, I couldn’t make his philosophy fit into my brain.

But out of respect for my mentor, and courtesy for my reader, if I still have one, I’ll keep the analysis and self-examination to a minimum.

IMG_7684A couple of weeks ago I was hooded for a master’s degree in creative writing out of Fresno State’s MFA program. I had amazing and inspiring professors and creative, hilarious, talented fellow students; I hope and pray to stay connected with this wonderfully strange family of people I have grown to love.

I walked away from a volunteer job that I loved, and it still hurts to think about it. The inmates I met, and soon adored, who were in my writing group at Fresno County jail, greet me in my dreams almost nightly; they want to know why I left without saying goodbye. In real life, they know why, because I told them repeatedly months in advance that I would be leaving, that I was graduating, getting a job in the city, and that I had a grandson coming. But still. In my dreams they look at me without trust.

I am still trying to do my job at Dakota House, where I have been the founding director for fifteen years. I am doing a bad job, though. I’m too scattered. And I miss the kids so much sometimes it makes me want to drop everything and run back to that little neighborhood, just in time for prayer and announcement time, where I can wrestle and snuggle and hang out with kids I love and with whom I can entirely be myself.

And then there is my grandson Mason. Nobody prepared me for this sort of love. Oh yes, they all said things like “It’s wonderful. You get to play with them and then send them home to their parents. It’s great!” This sort of sentiment doesn’t even touch the feelings I have for my grandson. He is only 2 ½ months old, and I am completely smittenphoto, out-of-my-head in love, and would basically climb any obstacle, put up with any inconvenience, and sacrifice nearly anything just to stare into his face and watch him drool and blow spit bubbles. It’s ridiculous. But seriously, can you blame me? I mean, look at that face. And he already has a personality that outweighs him by twice his size, which is not surprising in the least if you know his parents.

Wikipedia defines brackish water as “water that has more salinity than fresh water, but not as much as seawater” and states, rather obviously in my opinion, that “it may result from mixing of seawater with fresh water.” I’ve always liked this idea: the coming together of two different things to make something new, something that contains elements of both, but is neither. It is brackish.

My life in this season still has elements of the life I have been living for years now: our big old house that I love, with its crumbling walls and lush garden and bright kitchen; my noble and neurotic weenie dog, Hector; my Dakota House family; my extended family; my four amazing kids; and of course my husband, Brad—they all have my heart and my love and that has not changed.

But so much has. I am no longer a student. Wait. What? Yes. I am no longer a student. I had to say it twice to make it go in. I’ve been a student for so long—literally been in and out of college since 1990, and that doesn’t even count the early half-hearted, mostly social and debauched semesters in the 70’s and 80’s when I racked up some units at Fresno City College and C.O.S. in Visalia. I don’t remember what it’s like to not be learning, doing homework, complaining about doing homework, and commiserating with other students who are complaining about doing homework. I can’t recall what it’s like to read whatever I want, without taking notes or wondering how I could work this in to my next paper. I can’t remember what it’s like to NOT have an assignment hanging over my head. I have vague recollections, and I am starting to feel it now, but I think I don’t trust the feeling yet and haven’t given it permission to settle in just yet. I’m not even sure I like it.

More things that are different: I don’t sleep in the same bed as my husband every night anymore. I live out of a suitcase most of the time. I don’t get to have my dog with me. I rarely have time to cook and eat my own food. Half the time I don’t know where my stuff is. I don’t get to see my DH kids enough. Ever. But these are just the bad things.

I get to see my kids who live in the bay more. I actually spend several nights a month staying at their place(s). I get to see the amazing adults they have become; I get to enjoy them and hang out with them in their world. I have a new son, the father of Mason, who I coincidentally have loved for many years (I’ve even, in former years, been accused of making him my favorite DH kid–a preposterous notion, of course).

Sf cable carI get to breathe fresh salt air all the time now, which always has and still does feel like a gift, a precious, lovely, moist, not-valley-air gift. I regularly move through and stay in a beautiful city, taking in sights, and encounters, and discoveries that often astound, delight and intrigue me. I am not bored. I am learning new things all the time—I am teaching so I am learning along with my students. I have exposure to a new (to me) culture and am learning about it through kids that are funny, smart, curious, angry, happy, bold, shy, serious, and silly—just like all kids everywhere.

And there’s my grandson. The boy with the moon and star on his head, the boy who holds my heart in his chubby little hand, the boy who makes all the world right when I look into his eyes.

Hopefully, someday Brad and I will have our own place in the bay, and things will be easier; I will have more time with my husband, and a place for our grandson to come play, and I won’t be traveling back and forth so much; I’ll feel (and look) less like a tired and disheveled gypsy.

But this brackish season has its beauty. It’s not my old life, but it’s not my new one either. It’s something in between: a time to figure out some things about myself, my family, and my priorities. A time to discover what is out there besides everything I already know and live. A time to make good decisions while still recovering from the bad ones. A time to make bad choices and really figure out, for sure, that they are bad. A time for our family to grow and morph into what it will be in the years to come.

Wikipedia also says this: “Certain human activities can produce brackish water.” I’ll have to agree with that. It’s taken a lot of activity to get me where I am, some of it good and admirable, some of it not so good and admirable, but all of it mine, and all of it very human.

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Soggy in the Emerald City

I’ve been in Seattle since Saturday morning. It’s Tuesday morning, and it is miraculously not raining. For the first time since I’ve been here. seattle blu sky Here is proof. That’s blue sky you see just over the light rail streaking by. I am beside myself.

Yes, I am from California, where lately we beg the heavens to let water fall, where we do rain dances, and shake our fists at the cloudless sky and curse. Where it is currently 78 degrees. In February. I’m happy when it rains in my hometown. But this.

A friend of mine lives here and while trying to make some dinner plans he sent me this message:

“Let me plan on picking you up at [my hotel] so you don’t have to walk in the rain. You Californians sometimes freak out when it rains too much.”

I wanted to send him a reply message that said “WTF? I’m not made of sugar, you know.” But I didn’t. Because he is right. I have been freaking out a little. I have three pairs of soaking wet shoes in my hotel room right this minute, and one of them I bought at a City Target after walking all day in the soggy streets, my trusty pair of TOMS having given up trying to be shoes in this watery onslaught.

Last night I walked over to the Century Ballroom, where a free screening of RuPaul’s Drag Race was hosted by Ben DeLaCreme, seen here looking quite lovely. I had fantasies of mingling with fabulous drag queens, sipping wine and nibbling cheese with all sorts of folks I rarely come into contact with. I’ve been to a drag club twice, both the same one–LIPS, in Greenwich Village. I took bendelacremetwo of my daughters there on trips to NYC to celebrate their high school graduation,and both times it was a wonderful night of fun and laughter and amazing entertainment.

But it was not to be for me here in the Emerald City (FYI: STILL no idea why they call it that, but it sounds so great, right? ) The line at the Century Ballroom was so long–it snaked up three flights of stairs and around several bends. The people waiting in line looked disappointingly normal, too. Very few wigs. Hardly any sequins. Most everyone looked pretty much like me. In fact, I was more dressed up than most, thinking I couldn’t show up to a drag show wearing my Fresno State sweats and a baseball cap, though I could have, because most everyone there was dressed as dull and drab as the gray Seattle sky. After waiting for a half hour or so, we were told that they had crammed as many people into the ballroom as they possibly could. The rest of us didn’t stand a chance.

I did meet several nice very nice people while waiting in line. I was invited to go to The Wild Rose–a bar down the street–by a nice young man and his compportandia dudeanions. but I declined. He was so friendly, and so earnest in trying to get me to see the beauty of his city (he looked a lot like that guy on Portlandia), but my colleagues (I like calling my peeps that) from my MFA program will be here soon, and we will be doing plenty of drinking in bars; I decided to save up my energy and cash and head back to my hotel. Before I left, the young man told me that when the sun does come out, it’s glorious. “We really appreciate it,” he told me. I likened it to Tolkien’s theory (nerd that I am) of eucatastrophe, where you must endure the suffering before you can enjoy those “piercing glimpses of joy.” The young man, nerd that he is, loved my comparison, and wrote the word on his arm so he would remember it.

I goru pault a glimpse inside the ballroom, but the doorway was so crowded I couldn’t see much. In all it was a bit disappointing.

I made the walk back to my hotel through the rain. Have I mentioned that the GPS on my phone doesn’t work for crap here? All the clouds, I suppose. So I do a lot of walking in circles and staring at my phone, occasionally shaking it; that does nothing yet I can’t seem to stop myself. But last night I didn’t even need my GPS. I’ve begun to figure out the streets here, and besides, it was early, and I had nothing to do. (Having nothing to do is such a foreign feeling  for me; I find it exhilarating and terrifying.) I strolled through the wet and shiny city, breathing in the moist air, and enjoying the luxury of solitude in a city where I know almost no one.

seattle at nightBack at my hotel I changed into those comfy sweats and headed down to the lobby–the only place you get free internet in my hotel. I snuggled into one of the couches, ordered a glass of wine, and watched the final episode of House of Cards on my laptop, the letdown of which was similar to missing out on RuPaul.

But today the sun is out. Tomorrow my peeps begin arriving. I’ve got four more days here. Seattle, show me the green.

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Homeless in the Emerald City

One of the first things I am noticing about Seattle, besides how cool the light rail is, and how the sidewalks are super wet but not slippery, and how confusing the crosswalks are, and how many hipsters are here, is the number of street people—homeless or otherwise—I am seeing. This seems an unlikely place for folks who sleep in doorways to settle; it’s 44 degrees right now, and that’s the high for today. Besides which, it’s raining. And sometimes, Seattle looks like this:

snowy seattle
(Twitter user ‏@DaveGuss/Downtown Seattle/Feb. 9, 2014)

This is my first visit to the Emerald City (that’s what the pilot on Alaska Air called it, but I don’t know why–it’s more gray than green, honestly, at least so far); I’m here for the AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) conference, an annual event that brings writers from all over the place into one giant–as one of my DH kids called it–nerd convention.

Yesterday I found a nice, warm little deli that sells goat cheese and olives, and where I could get a slice of cheese pizza and a glass of wine for under $10. I sat at the counter, looking out to the wet and crowded intersection just near Pike’s Public Market. On this rainy Saturday I found the market a bit crowded and steamy for me, though it was worth the shuffle with the crowd just to smell the flowers and frying fish and hot apple cider. The woman sitting one stool away from me was reading the newspaper. She looked up at me and smiled, and we began an easy conversation about the poetry slam she almost attended the night before, but didn’t, and how she writes a lot of poetry. When I told her I was here for a writing conference she asked if she could scoot over to the stool next to me, and our conversation continued over the best cheese pizza I have ever eaten.

Her name is Francis Emily Waldow, but everyone calls her Emily, after her grSeattle nativeandmother, who was a member of the Cowichan tribe of Vancouver Island. Emily is half Cowichan, and half Italian, which gave us even more to talk about, since I am also half Italian, and I could swear she looks an awful lot like my aunts Toscana and Yolanda.

“I think it’s the Italian part of me that kept me from being a full-blown alcoholic,” she told me.

Emily has lived in Seattle all of her life. She was homeless for over a year, living on the street, before she got to the top of the waiting list for a low-income residence called Plymouth Housing–she has lived in the building we could see from our window for ten years now. She told me she has two hot plates and a cat.

“I can use the oven downstairs, if I need to,” she said. “The other day I made a cake for my friend–he’s a heroin addict and a schizophrenic, and I worry about him sometimes. I wanted to do something nice for him. So I made this cake, and I put it on the windowsill to cool. My cat jumped right on top of it, so I had to cut out the middle part and make it a donut cake,” she smiled at me.

Emily describes Seattle as a very “homeless-friendly” city. She told me that people “find niches” to sleep.

“One of my friends is sleeping in the back of a laundromat right now–some little room they let him use. But the city helps out a lot, too. We have Urban Rest Stops where you can get a shower. And when the weather’s really bad, they open up city hall. And of course there’s all the shelters.”

The Urban Rest Stops–where you can wash your clothes, take a shower or a load off–look pretty amazing, and I counted over 20 shelters in Seattle.

I live in Fresno, California. A search for homeless shelters in my town turned up a list of six, two of which I know do not take walk-ins.

“The police look out for us, too,” Emily told me. “If they find homeless people on the street, they call non-emergency and detox comes and takes them in, where they get taken care of.”

I asked Emily what she likes most about living in Seattle.

“It’s the people,” she said. “A lot of natives, like me, and just this feeling like we all belong together. You shoulda seen it when the Seahawks won. Whole streets were blocked off. People hugging and yelling and laughing–all the open containers but no fighting. Just a lot of celebrating together.”

Emily is passionate about her city, and about poetry. She recited quite a few pieces of her own poems to me, from memory. She gave me permission to share one. You can read it below; I have the signed copy in my journal.

Emily Waldow, if you are reading this, thank you for sharing your heart and your city with me. Come to the bookfair on Saturday. Mingle with some other poets, browse the books, and breathe it all in.

And You Thought  by Francis Emily Waldow.

When I start to think,

I rake in the ink.

My feet never leave the ground.

I move without making a sound.

And now, my thoughts are your thoughts.

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Philip Seymour Hoffman, Intimacy, and Legitimate Love

Yesterday morning, my friend Mel–who is living in Croatia–told me Philip Seymour Hoffman is dead. It was the first thing she said, once both of our Skype screens were up and I could see her face, pale as the moon, and her enormous blue eyes.

“What? Wait. What did you say?” I thought, or perhaps hoped, I had heard her wrong.

“Oh no,” she curled her brown hair behind her ear. “I, think–I think it’s true.”

When a celebrity–or otherwise famous person–dies, a strange phenomenon occurs: millions of people who never ever met a person experience a legitimate sense of mourning for that person. We feel it, in a very real way. Which is a sort of strange phenomenon.

When Richard Harris died, my husband heard about it before I did, and casually mentioned it while eating his Panda Express on a lunchtime phone call. I was so angry with him for, I don’t know, three hours, I suppose, for just blurting it out like that, with no warning. Richard Harris, who was none other than King Arthur in Camelot (a wonderfully surreal and cheesking  arthury 60’s rendition with Vanessa Redgrave as Guinevere and the Italian actor Franco Nero as Lancelot), the white guy turned Indian in A Man Called Horse, the rugged survivor in Man in the Wilderness, and in later years, Dumbledore and Marcus Aurelius and the pathetic yet endearing Frank in Wrestling Ernest Hemmingway. I can almost hear myself saying “I love Richard Harris,” and know that I meant it when I said it. But isn’t that a strange thing for me to say? That I love a person I have never met? I get it, as an English speaker I am in the habit of using the “love” word liberally, using it to describe my feelings regarding my daughter or my husband, but also my fondness for banana ice cream. But still. It’s a crazy thing we do.

Today as I am going through my day, studying and having conversations and building a fire and folding laundry and petting my dog, that sad little bruise I felt on my heart, the one for Philip Seymour Hoffman, occasionally feels tender again.

I’m not solely hurting because, as Dana Stevens said in Slate, “He could do anything, and he was just getting started,” though that is certainly part of it. And it isn’t solely because he was young, and he has a wife and three kids. There’s something else, and I’m trying to get a hold of that something else in my brain, to find a way to understand and describe the feeling of loss when an actor is taken from us. What is it about Philip Seymour Hoffman, or Richard Harris, or Heath Ledger that causes us to feel personal loss when they are gone?

Maybe it’s similar to that thing in pornography, where ( typically) the posing woman is looking straight into the camera, giving the viewer the feeling she is looking at him (her)? So because I have watched PSH become Capote before my eyes, get bludgeoned by Matt Damon in The Talented Mr. Ripley, and get blindingly high on gasoline in Love Liza I feel a certain closeness to him? He has, perhaps, been vulnerable in front of me (and millions of others, but still) and this evokes a certain feeling of intimacy. For some reason it appears to mean I can legitimately say, “I love Philip Seymour Hoffman.”

Maybe we need a new label for celebrity love, for that false intimacy we feel. I’ll admit I can’t think of an appropriate phrase. I’ll also admit I spent a fair amount of time yesterday pulling up pictures and interviews and film clips of PSH. I think It was a bit of a private memorial service I performed–a day of observance for this gifted man who chose to leave us.

In our Skype conversation, my friend Mel and I spent the first few minutes lamenting his death together. From here to Croatia, on our little screens, we shared some moments of sorrow for a man neither of us have met before we plunged into the detritus of our own lives. And perhaps that’s part of the debt we owe to Philip Seymour Hoffman–in his films, he took us away from our own lives before he took his own. And for that, I suppose I do love him.


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Fear for the World: A Drop in the Bucket


the bucket fresno state

I had one of those moments this week. A moment where I snapped. On a total stranger.

This rarely happens to me. (Notice how I say happens to me? This shifts the blame off of myself and on to some unknown yet inferred entity.) I think I may have verbally snapped on, maybe, three strangers in my whole life. And I’m pretty old, so that’s not bad.  One time I know my verbal assault was aimed at a woman abusing her child in the middle of the grocery store. It was all too much under those fluorescent lights; I couldn’t stop myself.

But this time, I was in The Bucket–a little spot at Fresno State that serves food and beer. It’s right in the middle of campus, and is–surprisingly–a pretty good space to study if you are also hungry, because they have great fries. And sometimes a woman just needs to eat some fries on a cold day after a sleepless night with a night of study and class facing her.

I like the little tables, the near abundance of electrical outlets, and the steady hum of noise that is a cacophony of students talking, food order numbers being called out, and bad piped in pop music; it all blends together to make a sort of–if not white–perhaps a beige noise. I have been studying (and eating fries) there for years.

On this day I had a lovely window seat and a stack of essays to critique. Homework is often about creating an environment that you want to be in, so you’re less likely to bail. I’ve gotten pretty good at this after all these semesters. I’d only been sitting there a few minutes when a young man approached my table. He was a tallish, thinnish Caucasian guy with small plugs in his ears and a flyer in his hand.

“Excuse me, may I bother you a moment?” he asked.

I put my pencil down and looked at him. He was swaying a little and smelled pretty strongly of beer. Before I could answer him he held the flyer in front of me and said something about his fraternity and then asked if I eat Panda Express, because–and this part is a little fuzzy, because to be honest I had sort of stopped listening very carefully at this point, having zero desire to eat at Panda Express. But I know people who love that place so I smiled at him and said, “I’ll give it to someone who will use it. Thanks.”

He thanked me, went back to his table–which was just one table away from mine–and I went back to my essays. A couple of guys joined the guy with the plugs a few minutes later, and the noise level began to increase, which doesn’t bother me because I always have my earphones with me as backup. I was digging through my bag looking for them when my daughter sent me a text saying she’s on break at work, do I have time to talk? I decided I would relocate my studying to the library after my conversation with my daughter–walk a bit, breathe the outside air first.

So I was packing up my laptop and whatnot, not wearing my earphones, when the following conversation went down, very loudly, at a table maybe three feet to my left. The guy with the plugs was talking about some crew he had worked on over the summer. One of the guys asked if there were any women on the crew.


“Hell yeah, we had ’em. And I mean that. {laughs} We really had em.”

{all the guys laugh}

“But yeah I mean the girls never made it longer than, like, three months. That was long enough to fuck ’em, though.”

{only the guy with the plugs laughs}

“We loved it when they were there, though. {laughs} Because they have pussies and titties. {laughs really loud} But that’s all they were good for.”

A lot of things in life are all about timing. At this particular moment I had just thrown my messenger bag over my coat, with all my books and notebooks tucked away; nothing was left on the desk but the flyer inviting me to support this guy’s fraternity. I picked it up, too hard, and walked over to the table where the guy with the plugs was sitting, leaned back in his chair, just those two back legs supporting all of his weight. I flashed on the sight of him falling straight backwards after I knocked those legs out from under his misogynistic ass. But I don’t really do that sort of thing. I never have. Too cowardly, I guess. I really don’t want to get hurt, so the fear of physical retaliation likely plays into it. I’m a small woman and I don’t know how to fight at all. I did kick some major ass in Indian Leg Wrestling once, but I think that was just about hip momentum, which I think is not all that helpful in street fighting.Or bar fighting, which technically applies here. Anyway, I’d probably feel so crappy later about doing it that it wouldn’t be worth that one glorious moment when the tile floor shut his mouth up but good.

What I did instead was slap his flyer down on the table in front of him and say, “Hey. Next time you want to raise money for your fraternity, you might wanna think about how you are talking about women.”

I know. It’s weak. But the element of surprise worked in my favor. All of the guys sort of froze and just looked at me. The guy with the plugs held his arms out wide, which almost caused his chair to tip back and my dream to come true all on its own. He was pretty drunk.

“Awwww maaaaan,” he bellowed out as his chair slammed down. “What the fuck?”

I was walking towards the door by this time. People were looking over at the guys, and at me. The guy with the plugs yelled out, “Yeah? So what I’m talking about women? What about it, huh? What about it?”


I didn’t say any of that, though. I just stood there for a moment and then turned and walked out. All of a sudden I saw myself standing in The Bucket confronting this young guy, a kid really, and I looked a little silly, honestly.I just wanted the moment to be over.

When I pulled out my phone to return my daughter’s call, my hands were shaking.  I sat in the sun and told her what had just happened. “Good for you, Mama,” she said.

But it wasn’t good for me. Because I don’t like the way that encounter made me feel. Lashing out isn’t nearly as fun as it ought to be, in my opinion. And sometimes I think I would just enjoy walloping someone, and I wonder what that says about me.

The library turned out to be a much better place to study that day. I found a quiet room with no one around and lost myself in reading–in ideas and words and thoughts. That night after class, when the campus was cold and nearly empty, with a mist settling around the lights of the library, I passed by The Bucket. I felt the anger start to rise up in me again as I remembered the guy’s words, and my brain went into hyperdrive as I imagined him raising a daughter someday or doing whatever he’s here attending college to learn how to do out there in the world and I realized my anger just comes from fear: fear for the world, and all of us who are in it together.

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I met Sam in the City

SF starbucks

I met him in front of the Starbucks in San Francisco where my daughter works—the busiest one in the city, where tourists and sight seers wielding shopping bags and cameras and cell phones make up a snaking line that never goes away.

He was a small man, not much bigger than me. His wispy, fair hair brushed the sides of his cheeks when he looked down; he tended to look down a lot, at the dirty sidewalk in front of him, so his hair fell like feathers around his jaw. He told me his name is Sam.

“I’m almost fifty and I’m standing on a corner with a cup,” he told me. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Repeatedly he apologized to me: “I’m sorry I’m so messed up,” Sam said to me five or six times during the half hour we spoke.

It was hard for me to know what to say to him. “Life is really really hard sometimes,” is about all I could come up with.

“Yeah but, the reason—it’s my own fault,” he said. “I did a lot of stupid stuff. I had a job and a wife and kids. And now I don’t.”

Sam told me that two wives have left him, and his daughters—17 and 22—don’t speak to him at all. “I can’t blame them,” he said. “But it still hurts.”

“I guess everybody has stuff they wish they could change about their past,” I said.

Sam looked up and right into my eyes; his were light blue, very round, with little folds of dark flesh around them. “People make it, though. They do.”

He looked across the street where a woman was yelling at another woman, and then he looked back at me.

“I’m gonna make it,” he said, after a long pause.

When I saw Sam again this morning, in front of the same Starbucks, I almost didn’t recognize him. His face was bashed in: one cheek was sunken; one of his eyelids was drooped and red. He had blood all around his lips.

The barista called my name; I turned around to retrieve my latté, and by the time I turned back again, Sam was gone.

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I spent an evening with

an Irish-American pair of siblings

he in his forties and she a decade older.

Two of nine siblings

they had a language of gestures:

eyebrow positioning and chin tucking

and a leaning of their heads

toward one another.


He I’ve known for a decade

and never met his family about which I’d enjoyed

old stories told on late, drunken nights

without his eyes ever meeting the listener’s.


And now here was his big sister

whose fleshy white arms extended wide and

when she said “Oh I’m just so happy” and “I am so blessed”

I knew she meant for

this evening by the creek in her brother’s cabin

but also for her life,

even its sorrows–of which I knew she’d had many,

and I also knew when she raised her glass

and said those grateful words

she meant them.


And he, her brother, our old neighbor, our good old neighbor

who most often would shift restlessly on his feet

and busy himself burning high dusty piles of pine needles

had a glint in one eye I’d never seen

and a loose arm flopped over his sister’s broad, soft, shoulders.


I fell asleep remembering the way

her cheeks lifted

and her eyebrows shot up

when I showed her the berry pie I had baked,

the way she’d clapped her

pale, plump hands together.

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