Between pots of coffee

Shoulders and arms, bones carved from hickory, rawed by fire. I sleep between three and four hours a night. I don’t know, because time is mud. I sit at the kitchen table until Connie comes down, and she complains when the coffee pot is dry. She taught me how to make a fresh pot. Everything is on the counter: the filter, the Folgers, the measuring spoon. I make a second pot for her when I hear the creaking floorboards. I am mostly neat, but it takes all my concentration, and my hands are still clumsy. But I do it. She growls when there are grounds in her cup or when the floor is splashed. Then do it yourself, I growl back. Do siblings ever stop being children towards each other?

The hours between pots of coffee are long. Continue reading

Blind color

How many vulgarities of red in the passage to null? Harsh, undisciplined strokes of color overlapping and smudged, from cherry to maroon, blending, bleeding. The pain was negligible, eventually. Dark sparks of light, and then nothing but an afterburn of floating images, ghosts, shadows in an impermanent twilight, fading, falling, until even light became memory. Imprisoned colors released into darkness. Continue reading

The shopping trip

Supplies: Bread, milk, Cap’n Crunch cereal, rib eye steaks for four, vanilla fudge swirl ice cream. Oil paints, canvas, brushes, sketch book. Two six-packs of Pepsi, bag of frozen cauliflower, bag of Golden Delicious apples. Wristwatch battery, Excedrin tablets, cowboy boots, package of sun-dried tomatoes, set of four lead crystal water glasses. Continue reading


She nodded. “I scare you because I’m stronger than you. Probably stronger than anyone you ever knew. And you don’t know how to deal with it.”

And of course she was right.

But she was wrong, too.

I didn’t want to stay, and I didn’t want to leave. I was in that thin-aired place where I clutched at indecision, a place of vertigo emotions where one wrong gesture or word or movement would make me tumble. I needed Connie to decide. I was terrified I’d do the wrong thing. It’s easier to screw up when you’re young and think you have a measure of years ahead to correct (or erase) the mistakes. But when you hit the high-sixties, there are no do-overs, and every fuck-up might as well be stamped upon your forehead in India ink. Continue reading