Blowin' In

In July, sunlight drifts into the late evening hours, hovering like foam atop an undulating tide of rocky hills and heathered pastures. Stones appear textured like fawn colored velvet. Deep greens lighten to mint beneath the gloaming of early July. Changing light mystifies the

My father was a high school English teacher. Because of his hours, he was home in the early mornings and late afternoons. As my mother worked long hours and erratic shifts at the hospital, my dad was there to comfort and protect. He specialized in stirring up his self-declared specialty:

Perhaps, it is not that I am forgetting my mother’s litany, but rather, her words have become part of my cells, my heart, my soul. I walk with her spirit each day in hope that I can share in her light.

In our family, the children and their adored cousins always wore Irish sweaters on St. Patrick’s Day. We have photos of the young crew all lined up at the windows of the hotel where they could watch the parade in warmth and safety, until they were old enough to march down the avenue ...

On one early February walk, Lucy and I passed by a familiar pine tree, but an unsettling whoosh passed above our heads. In the quiet of the night, I heard a solitary whoo and signaled for Lucy to stop.