As some of you may already know, my mother is a treasure huntress. She is also a trailblazer where taste and design are concerned, seeing and celebrating beauty where others can’t yet appreciate it.
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How do you leave?
Not a place
But an orientation
I remember the night I encountered my great-grandmother’s secret, perched in a glass of cleaning solution on the shelf above the bathroom sink.
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Mending from the clutches of fever and flu
That comes in waves
Not unlike the Atlantic below
He held the deep orange fruit in his hand, palming its smooth skin. “No, not quite ripe yet,” he muttered, a smile arcing across his tapered lips.
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Each year my complex friends return to meIn their next incarnation And then leave again too quickly.
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It is March, and I’m feeling pressured to get my seeds into soil. Every year, I’m not sure if I’m a little too early or too late.
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A couple walked into Nectar, mid-December, Nat King Cole singing The Christmas Song, lights twinkling around the window displays of fancifully wrapped gifts, tables and furniture overflowing with items from all over the world.
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At Nectar I witnessed relationship dynamics every day for 12 amazing years until I closed my last physical shop this past November.
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I repotted an orchid yesterday. She had been calling me to do it for a while but I kept putting other priorities first.
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“Come, walk with me,” Kumi said. “There’s so much more living beyond 4 walls.” How can I convey the warmth of her voice, how her rounded syllables soothe me?
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He is grinning, tanned, shirtless, thrusting a can toward me. In his one infinitesimal chance to grab my attention, this man has chosen to share these details: his thick muscular body which he is not shy about and might consider a kind of calling card, he likes beer, he wears a baseball cap and reflective sunglasses to conceal his gaze and any hint of vulnerability or longing.
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…it wasn’t ordinary at all, this inherently elegant thing. It was something much more: a cord that connected them before me in an overt way and to the women they secretly carried within them. Then the daughter turned her wrist over in a careless motion to indicate the way it was bound…
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In goes the cup of flour, not measured too carefully because there’s no need.
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I found some lost poetry while making banana bread at 4am with Leonard Cohen.
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For Aidan, Manny and Liam, and the younger generations coming in— so you will have some kind of record. This was written long ago written; I am hoping you will all take it from where I left off.
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These walls hold ghosts of you
You are lying in the bed, sitting at the desk,
Dreaming of what could be
If.