IF IT DIDN’T SOUND SO CRAZY, I’D WRITE a story about a mermaid and a farmer.
IF IT DIDN’T SOUND SO CRAZY, I’D WRITE an essay on a magical moving pen.
IF IT DIDN’T SOUND SO CRAZY, I’D WRITE a book about a ghost with a moving murmur.
IF IT DIDN’T SOUND SO CRAZY, I’D WRITE a tale about a wolf and a wren who share a den. Continue reading
On holidays, my far-away family makes sure we talk to each other on the phone sometime during the day: my brother calls from Maryland as his wife scurries in the kitchen, my guy’s siblings call at usually a most inconvenient time, like when we’ve just sat down for dessert. But still, we stop, we exclaim Happy Fill in the Blank (Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year, Easter) and we fill up with love.
Which brings me to the phone conversation with my son toward the end of Easter. Continue reading
We need to be sensible, we’re told,
yet if we forgo the sensitive, our poems won’t unfold. Continue reading
Even Janine is surprised when the trunk’s contents move with a big thump, but then she supposes that too many of them were placed rather haphazardly. After all, she practically threw them in, racing to her first destination. (see What’s in the Trunk).
The smoke has dissipated. The policeman looks as baffled as a man working on a 1,000 piece puzzle. A puzzle in the shape of books – dozens of books – piled together as if they’ve been kidnapped, or as if they have some nefarious reason for hiding in the trunk of Janine’s car. Continue reading
When the cop stops her, Janine does her best to appear calm. Unworried.
She presses the button slowly so her driver’s side window slides open as if Janine has all the time in the world.
The policeman is big, burly, and surly.
“Crap,” Janine mutters.
“Driver’s license.”
Janine wills her hands to not shake as she pulls her wallet out of her purse and finds the fake ID. Continue reading
