The moment I stepped out the door, the familiar twittering in the tree caught my attention and I smiled. For a couple weeks now, when I emerge from the house to greet the morning, I am met by the song of a lone hummingbird. The miniature fellow, who comes throughout the day to the red
The hum of the twenty-year old refrigerator finally shuts off, the cottage goes blessedly silent, and I feel my body relax. In the quiet of a rainy morning, I hear only the irregular staccato cadence of water falling from eaves, boughs, and leaves, rain tapping on the kitchen skylight, and a murmur that one might
They look something like small, golden apples with a whisper-thin coat of fuzz. On the table by the windows, the bowl of homely little fruits is so fragrant that I can smell their perfume three feet away where I sit with my morning tea. At Thanksgiving dinner, they were placed attractively on weathered sycamore leaves
Amid the trees, the dry, herbaceous aromas of the lower canyon trail transform. Here the air is not only cooler by several degrees but suddenly tinged with mossy notes and a scent of green-tea, catapulting me to other places and other wanderings.
My mother died twenty-four years ago. It is odd to realize that she has been absent from my life longer than she was actually in it. Doesn’t seem possible, really. Last month as I rolled past my 47th birthday, it dawned on me that my mom was just a few years older than I am now