Wednesday, January 24, 2007


“I’ve got an idea!” he shouts, and the door swings open to the world. In our house, there is no ceiling, the windows are always open-eyed, the garden blooms even under frost. Oh, love. Oh, yes.


Tuesday, January 23, 2007


the nine year old said “You could be my mother,” as she fussed with her fresh 2nd cousin. She counted her lipglosses and played dollhouse. At eighteen, she had already taken more college courses than most graduates.


Monday, January 22, 2007


shared this old Irish tradition - Lick your right thumb, press it into your left palm, stamp it with your right fist – when you see a white horse, of course. It’s good luck. Who doesn’t need it?



carried the hereditary torch of silence well when he was younger. My cousin who wears the Hill men’s curly hair and straight white smile, warmed up during a “Monk’s Dinner” when he lost his utensil privileges for laughing.



has found his happiness and livelihood baking specialty dog treats with his partner. Once, he sold antiques but he’s got a kindness core that doesn’t twig as well to furniture as it does to animals and people.


Friday, January 19, 2007


taught us how to pick up small objects with our toes. Napkins, Fisher-Price people, a plastic bottlecap all lifted with ease. Next we learned how to count in Spanish. Then as quickly as she arrived, she left.


Thursday, January 18, 2007


couldn’t live in a tanglehussle of an American city anymore so she found her home in Ireland. She shares “Soul Friend,” as a retreat for artists. Ducks waddle, brushes swish, words flow, voices sing and wine pours.


Wednesday, January 17, 2007


can read the back of a Kit-Kat bar and it makes women swoon. An architect of words, his poems are mosaics whose centers shine. His home is filled with a familiar color – the love of language.



eyes the four of us making puppets out of paper bags with adult concern for our sanity. Then she makes a suggestion for applying glue and the games have begun. Her face turns childlike from laughter.


Monday, January 15, 2007


The garden of her poetry is resplendent with peonies, roses, lilacs - words that are so weighted with feeling they drop their petals into your lap and onto the floor whispering their velvety scents and textures.



lives in a cottage on the edge of the strand and reads stones that stick to your feet. Tiny turquoise, rounded quartz, tiger eyes all predict the future. Her remembered advice: Don’t mess with your lower back.