Jumping Rope in Fitler Square
One girl holds her end of the rope in both hands. Another holds the rope between her stuffed rabbit’s paws, pressed tightly against her chest. Together, they lift and shake the ends of the rope. It twiches and leaps with arbitrary abandon. The rabbit’s ears flop. A third girl, the eldest of the three, stands next to the epileptic rope and hops up and down as quickly as she can, squeeling with glee. Their mothers look on with weary despair. This isn’t the game they remember playing. What happened to the rules? And later, when they become teenagers? Oh, God. Heat Wave...
Read MoreCicadas
It was the new neighbors that made me plug my ears. They did it with crow’s caws and popgun bangs; with doors and cupboards; with heedless laughter that woke me but not my wife, and left me envious in the dark. Once awake, I’d roll back old stones and peer at the grubs and worms of memory and conscience. The hours spent hunting sadness passed quickly. Now the earplugs take up what is in my head and show it to the morning, adhesive and greedy for dust. They grow dingy gray and yellow from use. I cannot bring myself to wash them. The earplugs keep the neighbors out. But they do not bring...
Read MoreA Small, Green Piece of Paper
Six Degrees of Separation is a play and film written by John Guare about the conjecture that all people are linked by five intermediaries. Six Degrees of Separation is standard theatre fare. Most people have seen it once but probably don’ t go out of their way to see it twice. I recall the play introduced me to Kandinsky’s paintings. One afternoon, not far from the Sea Bus terminal in North Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, per chance my eye doctor mentioned he was visiting London for a short holiday. Since I had attended the English equivalent of high school in Chiswick, I...
Read MoreOuter Lands – 1915
John said so, even before we built our home in the Outer Lands neighborhood by the ocean — there would be nothing but wind. It gusted so hard, and often, the effect was comical at first. We’d laugh at the extremity we faced, so that I loved to say the word “wind.” Sometimes I’d sing it, whisper it, my breath blowing on my sister’s new baby’s cheeks. The big girls would dance crazy and free with me; we’d turn Ma’s living room into a field. That’s why they loved me. Called me Aunt Wind. I was not long past child yet, my legs a gust...
Read MorePancakes Cure Cancer
“What are you doing to that poor cat?” I parked my doctor’s bag next to Nida’s briefcase. Curled at the table, my wife tucked old Bella’s forepaw into her fragrant teacup. “Give me a kiss, Aloysius. I’m bathing her infected claw with chamomile tea.” “Why don’t you take her to the vet?” I pecked Nida’s bony nose. “She’d waddle away if she didn’t like this.” “Couldn’t get far.” Our two crammed rooms abut an intake to the Queensboro Bridge. Lead-lined curtains and roaring air conditioners hide the traffic, but our living room unit drips into a bowl: tick,...
Read MoreFaces in Odd Places
I thought I saw John Lennon peering from behind a palm frond on a Hawaiian shirt once. I’d been rummaging through a table of men’s clothing at the Millwood Church’s annual bazaar. His bespectacled, contemplative face seemed so clear for that instant, but when I looked closer, it was only part of the overall busy, splashy pattern. I didn’t buy the shirt, but I would have if I hadn’t been mistaken about the face. It’s funny how we look for faces in inanimate places. One of the marbled floor tiles in front of my refrigerator camouflages a distinctly overweight...
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