“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


sunday after saturday

it is saturday morning.  the saturday part of that means the sound of edgers and lawn mowers bzzzzing through the open front door, and the morning part of that means the cat is pushed against my left thigh, and even that is not close enough for her.  she has her rituals and i am part of the morning one.


my uncle is dying
and bill collectors calling.
there is nothing i can do to stop the tide that is coming,
a tsunami a storm a big big wave;
swimming is exhaustion against such power.
i will float, palms and face up toward the clouds,
catching the moments of sunshine.


it is sunday late morning and the cat is sleeping outside the same open front door.  sunday means the noises are less, the silence stronger, the ticking of the clock almost loud as it moves toward noon, just 15 seconds away.  a dragonfly wakes the cat.


it is the summer of no stories.
the summer of seeing and not telling.
the rearranged living room pushes the couch closer to the door
and my view is narrowed.
just a bit.  


across the street, byron has borrowed a lawn mower.  it is orange and glows through peepholes in the wisteria, just here and there as a breeze blows across the leaves.  leaving it on his driveway, beer in hand, he moves to the front porch, to sit for a moment, to savor the still quiet day.  he leans into the sunshine, into the rare coolness of this early august afternoon, and the sun drops behind a scattering of clouds.  perhaps he is thinking if he waits, rain will come.

the sky goes blue again, shadows dappling the yards and street.  he leans back in his chair, closed window behind his head, a cigarette now in hand, and the cat comes into the house.  she jumps onto the couch and settles against my left thigh, sighing.  across the street, byron begins to mow and the sound is low and muffled.  a sunday sound.



  1. you make me feel like I am there with you. beautiful, beautiful writing.

  2. so powerful. so profound. tears come to my eyes as my heart feels so torn at this reality.

    you really should write for a living! you are that good. i've said it before and i'll say it again.

  3. you are that good, as both sarah and paula said.

    i love the honesty of this. it is real, and it is still magic. it holds pain and joy, harsh truths and beauty.

    and i'm sending you a hug in case you need one.


  4. Yes.
    What both of them said.
    I was thinking all those things as I read these beautiful little snippets of your life.
    My shoulders just dropped.

  5. If your narrowing your view then that means the color is there to stay. It's quiet where we live and mowing is very distant. What was loud and noticeable were dirt bikes and earth moving equipment. The dirt bikes are now a thing of the past, the kids who rode them grew up and left. The earth moving equipment is idle as well-you can only move so much earth I guess.


come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .