Boat People
And there it was, the body, one single man’s body, broken like a sack of bones and meat dropped from heaven, floating quiet on the immense flatness of the sea, that big slow-breathing mother-ocean stretching out forever under the low grey sky, no ripple, no hurry, just the long swell lifting him and letting him
Christmas Day
His nine-year-old loved her nursery, and she loved climbing trees, and reading her books about history, flowers, and trains. And she loved her father, and he thought of her as he buffed his black Oxford brogues from Loakes in London. And he thought of her again when he ironed his shirt, how she smiled when
Easter Lilies
I toss a small cube of sugar into the mix and watch it bubble up through the vodka and champagne. And you smile and we talk about art and life and flower shops with dusty books. And while the red sauce simmers, a little chink-chink, crystal glasses with swans, the Cabernet a fine choice, champagne