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I put on my mother’s undershirt, my mother’s socks, her splash pants, the gloves I found at the very back of her closet underneath the …

I look for an explanation across the expanse of water. Arrows of ice point me in all directions. They are too thin to hold my …

            The ice travels in and out on the tide like so much flotsom: the great white shards, the frozen …

These hands: warm and almost unbearably soft, still reaching to try to grasp and hold delicate memories as they slip under flannel blankets, hide in …

In a matter of hours, we have once again gone from squeak (of snow) to squelch (of mud). Winter ebbs and flows like a tide, …

I still take pictures.  I search through image after image, thinking about what the photographs of this new life might mean, struggling to find a …

The Year of No Summer slides into The Year of No Winter.  Such off-kilter seasons are forgiving: today I raked the sodden oak leaves from …

It bloomed in October, and lasted until today’s torrential rain.  It stood on the lawn like a kind of sentinel, watching as we walked, distractedly, …

As if we could call her back with candles.  As if the flickering light could guide her home.  As if she could be found, safe, …

Every time we look out the window, something different: rain, wind, sleet, rain, hail, rain, hail, houses with wet basements, and there it is, snow.  …