Author Archives: Kathryn Grace
I nip into the skin, peeling it back a bit with my teeth so as not to lose a drop of the juice to the ground, then sink into a big bite. Still it spurts. I suck quickly to get as much of the juice as possible, slurping unabashedly. Read more …
I watch the fast-changing light, play with the pigments on my palette, mixing a little more ivory with the yellow, trying to get the tint just right to record this moment
“Can anyone tell me why we compost yard trimmings?” Hand high in the air, fingers splayed, Nell mouths, “Pick me, pick me!” “Yes, Nell.” She sits taller, chin up, shoulders back, eyes sparkling. “So all the good stuff in the leaves and branches can turn into dirt.” She fairly spits the last word, clearly enjoying […]
Charcoal clouds hover, too high to drop their load just yet, but they darken and grow heavier with every step I take. Soon. The clouds barely move, and the air here, on the ground, is still. There’s something about the light on an overcast day. Every leaf, twig and flower is vibrant with texture and […]
Murgatroid the Cat and I slip from the bed, careful not to wake Cheyenne. It is dark, still, and even the birds are silent, though dawn can’t be long in coming. Murg pads silently through the open door to the screened porch. I follow, wrapping my sweatshirt-soft kimono tightly to keep in the bed-warmth. The […]
“I remember the day you were born,” I tell Xianne. “Your mama was sipping broth in the morning when Ruby and I, baskets full of raspberries and herbs, came by to wait with the women for you to pop out.” We’ve walked the twelve miles to Central Village—Ruby, Cheyenne and I. Several other friends from […]
“We’re thinking of trying again.” Balboa says this quietly, without looking up from the bridge of blocks and books she is helping five-year-old Linnea and six-year-old Tommy build across the imaginary River Blue, named for Balboa’s sky-blue scarf meandering across the nursery floor. At breakfast, Ruby said she needed to gather herbs today. Alone. She […]
How is it women of the village know to come? But they do, one by one, to sit with Balboa, with our memories of her childhood, moments of laughter and tears. We breathe. We are present, witness to her grief, sharing her sorrow.
Dusk is settling to dark on this cool September eve, and the first star hangs low and bright in the sky, twinkling with the cheery strands we’ve stretched high above the perimeter of the dance floor.