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, sage-like 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