SAMMAMISH, WA 29th IV 2016 Climbed the dead end road Beth lives on a half an hour before sunrise to walk and write. Our last night in Germany, mom, Eberhard and I laid out the drugs on the table for… Read More ›
parenting
The heart lies somewhere I can’t reach
We woke this morning to wet snow on the cherry blossoms outside and on the roofs, people with umbrellas, the smell of someone burning something, probably the stone bake house up the road. Dawn got the kids up though I… Read More ›
The world’s a lot bigger the first time
When we got back home to Germany they were building the beer halls outside Stuttgart for the spring beer festival and Eberhard said we would go tomorrow and leave at 2:30 with plans to return by 8 — and I… Read More ›
Dance of the honeybee’s memories
When I get Charlotte at school there’s an Italian girl who looks big for her age who’s taken to her but in an overly touchy way, scruffing her like a puppy and squeezing her too tight, and we have to… Read More ›
Not yet remembered
I sometimes wear Eberhard’s Stetson to get Charlotte at school, and stand outside with the other parents waiting for her to appear in the doorway — and when she does and sees me with the hat, she turns pink and walks ahead… Read More ›
Southern State Tapestry
Dawn got back from two weeks in Italy with her mom, I returned from Amsterdam, our French friends came down with two of their kids, more French friends came and left theirs at home — and with Eberhard, Benny, and… Read More ›
What happens in March stays in March
I got into Eberhard’s cigarettes in the Schrank which he said I could help myself to but I didn’t for a variety of reasons until last night, after booking a flight to Newark to see my grandma, and talking with… Read More ›
That one winter in the UK
By the time we got to Bath there was nothing left to see. I could have skipped London which would have been dumb, hiding instead in some quiet town by a river in the Cotswolds, some place even the English don’t… Read More ›
They packed the gaps with sand and mud
Old, half-timbered houses with uneven beams buckling and bent into one another like two drunks steadying themselves. Everything on its side, lead pipe handrails caught in their footings, ivy-choked trees. Pale morning birdsong, footpaths leading down the valley ending in… Read More ›
Salthill Serenade, Galway
Wet snow tangled in the hair of the grass outside of London, topping the cars like confetti. Going back to a Sunday a month ago in Galway, a neighborhood ten minutes outside of town called Salthill, that day we started… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 