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 […]
“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 […]
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.
We are miles from the Village–Janine, Sena, Cheyenne, Ruby, Merilee, Betty, and I–on our first campout of the season. Minimalists, we sleep on bare ground, our bags zippered close for warmth, thick trampled grasses beneath for cushion.
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.
A light fog rolls in from the west as I wait my turn for the soup tureens. I sniff the air. Co-mingling aromas of garlic, oregano, thyme, basil, and fresh tomato call to me the moment I step inside the door.