Cottonwood trees are producing more fluff. I am jealous of things so aptly named. The verb take can be a phrasal verb with so many meanings: take off, take up, take in, take away. If I had a name it would be the sound of a bird making its nest in the empty gutter. It would be the sound of wings flitting over roofs, a thirst without forecast, a number so vast it doesn’t need to be counted. How about a name so simple you forget it ever meant something? A name that takes nothing … Continue reading Names by Esther Sadoff →
The sixty-year-old woman is sleeping at the moment, so I sit on a worn brown couch in the family waiting room down the hall from Shirley. It’s not too far from the intensive care ward where she lays on the white, white sheets, connected in too many ways to the machines that keep her alive or that measure whether she is, or is not. This windowless refuge gives no hints about day or night, winter or summer. Two half-done jigsaw puzzles await completion on small tables. There is a television, but it isn’t on. Shelves … Continue reading By Shirley’s Side by Peter Wallace →
“I’m always having a conversation with myself between art and craft. Art is for the heart and craft for the wallet,” says fine artist and fine craftsman Alan Box Levine in his studio at the McGuffey Art Center In Charlottesville, Va. “Art is a window to the world. It has nothing to do with money. I also restore old things—windows, tables, chairs, book cases—for a living.” Levine’s compact studio displays the makings of his varied talents. Displayed are wooden benches, boxes of all sizes, dried flowers, toys, vintage family photographs. An antique ladder back chair … Continue reading Fine Art and Craftsman Alan Box Levine →
I missed my son’s voice this Christmas. Of all of us, Steven’s voice was the deepest. And that includes all the voices of our best-entire-family friends, the Eisenheims. Bruce (Steven’s dad) and the Eisenheim men (there are three) are all over six feet tall (just like Steven), but even so. In a room completely filled with Eisenheims and Trvaliks, you could still pick out Steven’s voice from the crowd. That’s how deep it was. Deep and resonant. Even his laugh was deep. He laughed a lot. That’s when I noticed it, actually. Christmas week, on … Continue reading The Second Christmas by Mary Trvalik →
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