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When Prayer Is Impossible

I show my mercy toward my screaming baby son by cuddling him; Mary shows hers by cuddling him at times, and poking him with that damned needle at other times. My mercy is made only of light; Mary’s is made of light and darkness and so it is larger and encloses mine.

He Said If She Touched Him He’d Die

Sunday Mornings

A cloud of golden light, a half-gallon of ice cream, the Book Barn

Family Portraits

I am mesmerized by the photograph of my father, staring at me from solemn dark eyes just like mine. He is dressed splendidly in a striped suit and white shoes; I cannot tell the colors of anything else because the faded sepia tones of the photograph reflect only subdued lights and darks. A dandy, my father was, with a handkerchief in his pocket and a flower in his lapel, his dark hair perfectly parted on the side. There is an anger in the way he stands, and a shyness; the look on his face is sullen and inviting.

Portraits

The self-portrait is one of my first photographs.

The picture of my grandmother was taken two days before she died. The children on the wall are me and my sister; the picture in the middle is my grandmother, when she was twenty-one.

Daylight Savings

Orson has stopped asking me to marry him, but every once in a while he says something to let me know that the offer still stands.

Bedtime Reading

Soon after I met the man who is now my husband — it was our second date, I think — Peter explained one of his chief requirements in a woman: “Let’s go to the library. We’ve got to be able to read in the same room together.”

Farewells

An old porch swing, a birthday gift, an even half-dozen

Suitcases Of Baby Food

I wait for my father at the airport, as usual. He is almost two hours late, according to his itinerary No. 48. I should be used to this routine by now.

The Written Word

Writing words on paper is particularly arrogant. How presumptuous to believe that words on paper can capture meaning, freeze life, hold it for even a moment.