In a single year, this grandbaby has left a mark on my heart…her vainglorious filigree.
"Happy Mother's Day, dude," they said. So at their urging, I drank a six-pack.
Oh, this old house. A good place to peel potatoes or butter a turkey. If the water is running, you can’t hear the TV.
Why are we on Santa Monica Beach? First of all, the place is a poem -- I’ve written sonnets to it before.
“Jesus is risen!” as they say in church, and I’m still stuck down here with a hundred gophers, in the little house that used to be a Wienerschnitzel.
My grandbaby is all the things I am not. She is new.
Easter is voile dresses and flowers in the kids’ hair. This year, it's also these amazing Ukrainian eggs.
This creature … this scion…this legacy. Miss him so much his very first Easter away.
At my age, I need to stand in the kitchen with someone funny, shoulder to shoulder, cutting carrots. With her.
This burrito is still cooking a little in its foil as I carry it home, the flavors melding, the molecules marrying