Being alone on a boat at sea after a warm embrace on the quay carried with it the thrill of solitary freedom and possibility. I stood at the stern by the fluttering French flag watching Dinard fall away, then turned to Saint Malo with its central steeple poking out from the uniform mass of the town.
I am the last scuba diver on the dive boat. I look out to the horizon, where the gray sky meets the vast South Pacific Ocean. We’ve come a short ride from Matauri Bay in Northland New Zealand.
It’s early April. I stand at my sink watching the daffodils I planted last fall—I bought the bulbs on sale at a hardware store—begin to bloom, or try to. It’s been snowing and hailing all morning,…
A mother and daughter play pinball at the Silverball Museum in Asbury Park, New Jersey. If there’s a pinball gene, this vignette may be proof that it exists.
That last evening in Ireland, on the docks, our favorite aunt, Molly, and her husband, Bill, came to see us off, hugging us as we were about to board the ship.
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t be caught dead waiting in line at 4PM on the 14th of July—Bastille Day, the French National Holiday—to enter the Champs de Mars to watch the fireworks from up close by Eiffel Tower.
All morning she and her brother had been begging to be allowed out but the childminder would only let them play in the garden. She said they were too young to go wandering around the village.
Somehow, in spite of everything, the rhythmic coughing of the motor had become reassuring. The children had fallen asleep
The launch party/reading for The Paris Vignette also included musical vignettes featuring Manu Terreo on guitar.
She had fallen asleep to the moonbeam lighting the darkened lake, threading a silver ribbon across her bedspread. Now it was daybreak and thirteen-year-old Lilly awakened to the trilling of the marsh wrens and the call of the loons,
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