I love this story—
My great grandmother was my great grandmother in Amygdaliés. 
My grandmother always knelt in the chamomile with her. 
They loved the small golden flowers in the field—
This is not a story,
more the truth and a memory, 
a eulogy of sorts by the time I arrived

a WWII Novel-In-Progress
Excerpt

She was still breathing when the Englishman found her face down in the sand, her skin simmering with sea salt, her ear covered in blood—only some of it hers. 

Abilee’s dark brown body had gone purplish like a bouquet of seaweed casually washed ashore, her fingertips bulbous, her wrists limp, her arms and legs splayed on the beach between Pouppeville and La Madeleine. She was still in full uniform. 

It is said the man built a spiral in salt and in six days. 
He wore hip-waders. Waiting.
Ordered rocks. Made it to hold the soul 
of the water. A backhoe scooped and anchored. 
Beneath the crown of sea, hoe on hoe 
had piled to a pattern of metal.

Counterfeit Snow: First a quart of good rich milk. Make sure it has been a year since the cow had a calf. Add six egg whites, one ounce of rice flour, a quarter pound of powdered sugar, whip together like butter. Skim off what comes to the top. That’s the snow. Put it on a plate. 

We were both young, in our late twenties,
vain and full of ourselves and The Arts,
unimportant to anyone out in the world

who might matter, but we mattered to us,
and we mixed up a bowl of plaster of Paris

I’d like to be told to write a song
like Moses was told. This is the kind of
assignment I’ve been waiting for.

Free reign to be an artist and
use my sensibility to pluck the 
right notes out of the air.

Art and music have the power to articulate what we feel before we even have the words, offering us a mirror in which we can finally recognize ourselves. When we hear a song that understands us, we begin to understand ourselves. The right melody, the right words—delivered with warmth and compassion—can create a space where growth and healing are not only possible, but inevitable

Come;
let’s live something together
but not just a life.

If it must be life,
then let’s do something more than merely live.

I remember how sunny the day was — driving home,
me in the back seat wearing a favorite floral dress. 
A special occasion — stopping at the artesian spring
to fill big glass jugs with water flowing directly
from its source. A treat, better than the Jersey tap.

Tentative, curious, uncertain, alive, she followed him into the woods, moving in the direction where she imagined the rest of her life waited. So ready for something to happen. The old secret cottage had fallen to the ground. He acted as if that surprise was inconsequential and spread a thin jacket over the dark forest floor.