When I was growing up I thought of 23 Broad Street as 'my home'. I thought this because it was the one thing in my life that didn't change. That house was always there, Aunt Annie was always there, my... Read more →
We migrated south from New England, down to the Badlands of Fairfield County. Technically still New England by virtue of the nearly invisible line separating it from Westchester County, New England it was not. I'd never stayed in any one... Read more →
I think this might be the most honest photograph of me, ever. I remember Joe set the camera on a table, messed about for a bit, and then set the timer. This was us in 1984. I was twenty, he... Read more →
In the beginning she told herself they were small things; no matter at all. She placed them, one by one, in the small carved box at the back of a closet and said, no matter, it is no matter at... Read more →
He doesn't look like anybody but himself. He might have his father's ears and his grandmother's eyes, but that pixie face belongs entirely to his youngest sister. He's got his mother's nose and also her heart. You can break that... Read more →
I was only expecting steam from the fissures; not a full scale eruption. I think, maybe many of us think, if we look at a thing often enough, eventually we soften the impact. I don't think we do; I think... Read more →
The last time I touched a brush was in July, 2015. I think about it for a while, because five years is a long time to walk away from so much color. I put the brushes down, put the paint... Read more →
My Aunt Annie. Not so sure about this selfie business. Heather, I don't know how to do this. Yes you do. You're doing it right now. She was seventeen when I was born, and married at twenty; three and a... Read more →
I was coming of age, and she was coming into her own. She fought battles for me well before I knew I'd need them. She was tenured at Columbia University in 1972; just about the time I informed my parents,... Read more →
That's how it started; a full bottle of Jameson's in the sand. Just that one bottle propped at an inconsiderate angle. Damn thing should be allowed the dignity of standing up straight until it tips over in the despair called... Read more →