The riddle of the garden is the garden. The hollyhocks, chest-high, their irresponsible profligacy. The nethering stonecrop. The wax in which the body walks. The fragrance kneeling at the lily’s mouth. The story that is the lily, the fragrance; the peonies, their exfoliate hives. The weavers in their close huts of wattle hurl questions at…
We were the News-of-the-World Theater Collective, moving from city to city together; we were all married to each other and to the idea of what you could pull from the streams of the news that ran over and around and through our lives. We wanted no one to ever again let that information splash over…
Today I started looking for my soul. Yesterday it was my keys. Last week, my brain which I couldn’t find, it being out looking for me, now that I’m getting so old. First I thought my soul would have gone back to Greece where she grew so tall and straight, she thought she was…
That summer in the mound of sand someone left beside the cesspool lid, my father managed to grow a watermelon— it’s not what you’re picturing—maybe not even edible, the size of a softball, but, hell, it was a watermelon, and, all year round, the man worked two jobs in the City, and only came out…
The air outside was warm and wet, like breath. Feeling the breeze on his face, the baby stopped crying and looked up at the sky. I turned him around and leaned him against my chest, holding him with one hand curled under his arms, the other cupping his bottom. He gently kicked his legs, as…
When I was in fifth grade at a private school for boys in Newton, Massachusetts, my geography teacher, Mr. Neale, was blind, had been blind for some years, probably on account of some gradual degenerative disease. This was in 1952. Mr. Neale was a large man, with a round face and thick fleshy ears;…
What ever happened to George Van den Heuvel, carbuncled waiter extraordinaire who hazed me relentlessly the year I turned sixteen and took my first job as a waitress at Le Bistro, Lubbock’s only bona fide French café? Why George Van den Heuvel proposed marriage on my first day was never clear, nor why he celebrated…
The high school kids are so beautiful in their lavender blouses and crisp white shirts. They open their mouths to sing with that far-off stare they had looking out from the crib. Their voices lift up from the marble bed of the high altar to the blue endless ceiling of heaven as depicted in the…
Andrea Barrett, after spending years immersed in science and history, recognized her literary calling in a house in western Massachusetts. She was working on a paper about the Franciscans and noticed the narrative threads circulating throughout her research. "I was enrolled in a master’s program in Reformation and Medieval History, thinking I might go on…
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