SHORT STORY

In the weightlessness of falling snow, Father Gomez stepped around piles of dirt to the front of a small crowd. He looked beyond the black headdresses and palettes of faded fall colors worn by the wild flowers that survived a cold spell. He made the sign of the cross, sprinkled holy water from a golden aspergillum and offered a few parting remarks: “Oh Lord, our symbols join our souls, linking faith and fate in a chain of time, so that what we do every day, how we think, and that for which we suffer reverberates into the space we call our lives.” Everyone has left. I remain. Night falls and th..

It’s past midnight and I have put the pen down to scan the four framed pictures hung over my desk—, two abstract, colorful geometric figures; two portray boxers with an uncertain fate. I wonder why I chose to hang them where I spend most days and nights. (more…)..

My granddaughter sat next to me at the piano waiting to start her first lesson. On the rack in front of us, the music for “Some Enchanted Evening,” stared back, which, but for Amy’s question, “Poppie, when did you learn to play the piano?” would have been unremarkable. When I didn’t respond, she insisted, “Poppie, who . . .?” “My aunt played and she showed me. Now, you know your alphabet, so let’s start there.” Amy wasn’t finished. “Does she still play?” “I don’t think so….” “Why?” “Well, I don’t know.” Sometimes we hide the truth because, as in this case, my student needed to hear the harmoni..