Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter,
In A Mist it is the day after and I phone wanting to say a new song has nudged into place though my children play off-key tunes in the other half of my house I phone with all my senses jazzed by the gift of touch that foggy cornet a symphony by Bix Beiderbecke your
Eliza Jane pressed the down button for the elevator and waited patiently as the cables began drawing the small cab up the shaft to the second floor of the old house. As the doors opened, she stepped inside and pressed the button marked “B” (she’d always called the underground floor the “cellar,” but no matter).