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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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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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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After the terrible fire struck Ellen’s house in Massachusetts, she continued living there with her three kids for weeks. My parents and their friends all wanted to help her.
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It was dark and one by one we entered the small, comforting building lit only by the glow of a few tiny candles.
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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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“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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