Writings

I’ve never visited Grace Street, but draft an image from my mother’s stories. The brick is brownish-yellow; a leafless skeleton of ivy radiates in snow. Neighbour noises leak into the front lawn—the rattle of a gate rammed shut, followed by ma va fa’un— chicka-dee-dee-dee splitting through street, trash and compost huddle on the curb. Slabs of concrete escort you past roses choked out by frost and capsizing into white grass, past the blue birdhouse nailed to tree by my great uncle who came here in fifty-nine, past the screen door…

You were right, dear professor, the great vortex came in time whirling us into the pond in which Narcissus saw his beauteous reflection. No longer an extension of the hand, the mouth, the ear, no longer a tool, but an obsession, a possession Narcissus mesmerized by his own image til he lingered and perished. In the dispiriting cafés in front of our Apple screens—the apple was once a fruit, now mechanized, and bitten like the original— the seductive bite that drove us out. Narcissus solitary and non-conversant, transfixed by the…

“Where to?” “Anderson Cancer Center,” I said. The driver sneaked a look at me in the rearview mirror before he…

Cars, trucks, and heavy transports bustle down the busy thoroughfare known as Preston Street. A vital link between the city…

I remember as if it were yesterday, when I would stop in to see Mom and Dad after work. They…

SAPLING Sunday mornings, Mom attends mass at St. Ambrose Church while Dad takes me to High Park where I play…

“Since the house is on fire, let us warm ourselves.” (Italian proverb)   Monday, 9 a.m. Not writing. Dim, dreary…