“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.
Bedtime. … The air wafting through the porch screens is cool-warm, with the scent of rain. My fingers smell of bruised mint leaves, picked from the herb garden beside the stoop not twenty minutes ago.
The buildings and grounds are constructed in concentric arcs that fit the natural contours of the hill, which slopes toward the great Jasper Lake.
As we left, Lotty and I strung a garland of wild asters and daisies across the door, to be removed only by the bride and groom on the morrow, when they enter to spend their first night in their new home.
Across the meadow, and round a huge outcrop of granite, we heard the upper falls before we saw them–two high ribbons, one far above the other, glistening water cascading down a sharp escarpment.
My mom, Ruby, is as giddy as a school girl with Beryl’s widower dad, James, the two of them twitching and twittering at the least provocation, like young lovers. You would have thought they were the bride and groom.
You know how poorly I travel, Noah. I must harness all my strength for the trip.