You won’t remember.

Snow fell in December, flakes as fragile as love. A poet wept. Time stood still.

The world was beautiful and I felt special, knowing I’m not.

Yes, beauty is deceptive. Winter turned to spring. I learned the language of loss and how much I miss a snowflake.

~ A

draft 3

On Winter’s eve, especially one so cold, Roy is witness to unquestionable beauty. Even the branches glitter. He looks up. The moon hangs, swollen and ripe, perfectly placed within an inky sky. This must be Heaven.

His mother’s words flit back and forth, “Moonrise, Blue Moon.” She wears an apron, hand stitched and patterned from the finest Irish linen. Round her neck is a chain with locket.

Alice tilts her head and nods toward him. She presses one hand against the apron’s cloth. As she speaks, her words drift on smoke rings.

“Mind you keep a blanket close.” She pauses to exhale. “It’s a frosty night.”

She gazes through the attic window. Moonlight gleams through glass. Beneath the window is a garden. Hard packed soil is all the eye can see. Her smile is a secret. Buried deep beneath the earth are the bulbs she had planted in autumn.

“Sleep darlings,” she whispers.

He wants to sleep, too. In sleep, one finds stillness. Instead he stares at the rafters. His cot is narrow, a makeshift type of bed. The blanket is wool and itches skin. Tears sting. He understands this and so he blinks them back.

He recalls how she had loved to sing about the moon and the colour blue. He imagines her sitting on it, a glass of Gin in hand. She winks.

A canopy of stars lights the sky. Frost has kissed the branches, leaving nothing but prettiness. The moon lights his path.

“Climb a ladder, pick a star. Call it magic, if you must.”

Her voice begins as a whisper, gentle lyrics scrawled upon a torn sheet of paper. Notes build. Softly, gently, she sings about a river. Her words: a broken hymn, an arrow to his heart.

Standing alone, she is precious in her solitude, with eyes wide and deep, a child. A lock of hair falls across her pale cheek and he stops an urge to tuck it into place. Her feet are bare. Unflinching, she stands tall. 

Who is she? Familiar yet unrecognizable, with eyes the colour of moss. When she turns to face him, he remembers emerald sparks and velvet. He hears the sounds of laughter, a bear, and talk of stars.

They move in unison, one step forward, two steps back. Her gaze never leaves his face. She reaches for his hand.

He asks himself, Is this heaven?

He does not believe in magic, in that which he cannot explain, certainly not angels. There is reason in science. This unfolding wonderland can be explained. Roy is certain: warm air mass is pushed above cold. Icy precipitation forms. If the warm air mass moves out of the way and it is cold between the storm clouds and the ground, -. He shuts his eyes.

Her hand grips his. Her fingers are warm. She leans in to whisper,

“Sleep, Daddy.”

Part One

Draft # 3

Cross legged on the grass, I watched, as he looked skyward, eyes raised toward heaven. His mind was transcending the here and now. Gone was the hill he’d yet to climb, faded were the saddest memories, their burden heavy, for one caught up in the prime of life. A weight had lifted off his shoulders, dropped at his feet. For a moment, he’d entered a mystical space. 

In that moment, I thought him brave.



‘Dream On’


I will say this: You left a bird with a broken wing.

On that day, life, as I had known it, ended. Red lights seemed eternal. Sad lyrics left me raw. This was the beginning of what you would conjure.

Silence became a lover and the ocean, his touch. I learned to feel without words. I came late to understanding: all that we take, all that we do, ebbs and flows, a Karmic cocktail, a tsunami of emotion.

Perhaps, you did not disappear in such an unholy manner. Could it be you remain, waiting to be found, amongst the stones scattered at my feet?


~ Annie


It takes patience to procure the perfect cup of coffee beginning with the French beans to the water’s roll. Next, is the slow pour over and finally, the decisive press.

Take pleasure in the art. It’ s a ritual allowing time to be.

Rain hits the pavement. Leaves dance in the wind. Somewhere, in the distance, a door slams. A wind chime rustles. A baby cries.

I am still. Peace waits within sips of strong coffee.

The first taste is always too hot. The last, too cold. There is a moment between these two extremes, the sacred space of seeded memories, whispered prayers, the spot where lovers meet.

You say, “Come to me.”

We are in Paris. You take my hand and lead me to shelter, far from the storm.

The Art of Coffee In The Rain


Ardua Pier

“Lady’s name was Marsha. Seven years ago, I sat in an over- heated kitchen that smelled of Meyer lemon and left- over Chinese take-out.”

Rummy coughed. “Marsha. Wonder what happened to her?”

“Ask around town. Put one of your boys on it. If she’s anywhere in North America, they’ll find her.”

He shook his head and stared out the window. Silence overtook him.

I sensed she was more than a casual mention. In the distance, a lonely pleasure craft approached the pier. I followed its navigational light and thought of Ella, of how she had slipped away in the wee hours of morning.

Noticing the light on the masthead, Rummy straightened and turned the key in the ignition. His mind worked overtime, one step ahead of potential trouble.

“I’ll tell you this much. Marsha differed from other dames. Real down to earth, didn’t care for the club. I met her at a Queen City Laundromat. Saw her standing next to a dryer, reminded me of one of the Carter sisters. A Brunette with cat eyes, juggling an armful of sheets and blankets. On top of the dryer was a basket. On a stack of folded towels, slept a baby. We talked. She told me the kid slept better on a dryer. Something about the rumble and shake. Afterwards, I carried the whole load: folded sheets, towels, and kid, four blocks to her apartment.

“You’re a good man, Rummy.”

He shrugged and rolled the window. Salt air was life to lungs. The hum of the boat’s engine grew louder as it slipped alongside the pier.

“Couldn’t stand there and watch her carry a heavy load. I fell hard for that gal,” he said. “Want a shot?”

I nodded. “For Marsha.”

He reached beneath the front seat and pulled out a paper bag. Inside was a bottle of Glenfarclas. He loosened the cap and raised the bottle to his lips.

“To Marsha.”

After a moment of silence, he spoke. “My buddy Earl works for Liquor Control.”

We laugh, inhaling the scents of spice, fruit, and memories of my mother’s Christmas Cake.

Moonlight shines silver on Rummy’s silvered head. He leans back. “Marsha. Put me under her spell. Said she lived nearby. Turned out to be four blocks and three flights of stairs. “

He took another swig from the bottle. I asked her,”You do this every week?”

“Twice,” she says.

“At the door of her apartment, she offers me a glass of water.”

I shrug knowing this is how it starts. Simple beginnings and difficult endings. This was how it began with Ella. I had offered to fix her mother’s car.

“Who offers a guy a drink of water? Marsha had a soft voice, sounded like a lullaby. From the moment she looked at me, I was bewitched by those emerald eyes. That evening, I’m sitting in her kitchen, chewing on ice and thinking to myself, Leave. Except I stay and order take- out. After dinner, I watch her toss a dish rag, hear a splash. Bubbles shoot mid air, reminding me of those carny fairs that set up on boardwalks. Her Basket Boy reaches up, grabs a bubble. Pop. You listening Roy?”

I nod.

“Remember those machines that pump bubbles? Moms, Dads, Sailors, Women- it’s all sound, lights, and movement. The Ball and Bucket Toss?”

I smile, certain of summer memories: the ocean, the salt and sun. Long stretches of highway, miles and miles of lemon groves. Road side diners that appear out of nowhere, like a cheap trick mirage.

” What a racket,” he said. “Some hatter hollering, ‘Winner every time.’ They place the Bubble-Lou machine at the entrance, lure you into carnival chaos. Once inside, it’s all illusion. Humans are fools. ‘Step right in, open your wallet, you’re going South, anyway.’ And monkeys. There’s always a monkey in the mix.”

As I listen to him speak, I see myself, twenty-one again and standing at a truck stop off the US 99. The scent of oleander hangs heavy, reminding me of Sundays on the farm. A hand lettered sign, nailed to the siding of a roadside diner, reads: ‘Swans‘: Lyon’s Coffee, Fresh Farm Eggs, Bacon. The diner is a glorified shack perched on a sinking foundation. White paint hides rot. A one- eyed wooden swan graces the lawn, which is more patch than grass. At the side of the diner stands an abandoned rig, once full of raisins and figs. A woman stands on the front porch. She’s reading a book.

A high pitched yelp sounds out of nowhere. A child, faded bath towel pinned as a cape, darts past. Whooping and hollering, he circles me. His weapon, a bubble wand fashioned from a coat hanger.

“Yo. Settle down,” I say.

The woman glances over and smiles.

“Bo. You heard the man.”

On the porch step is a metal bucket filled with soapy water. An empty mason jar, wrapped in strips of tape, waits for coins: Tips.

I drop a dollar.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Bo. Thank the man.”

“Thanks Sir.” He stands at attention and salutes. I should tell him I’ve never enlisted or taken an oath. Before I speak, the woman interrupts.

“Awful nice of you,” she says. “Bo’s saving for cleats.”

“That right?” I soak her up: hair piled high, lips the colour of spun sugar. She looks barely out of her teens. On one tanned shoulder perches a Parakeet.

The name tag pinned to her dress reads, Carol Ann. Her feet are bare. One glance about the place and I know I should turn around. All that was missing was a monkey.

“Friends call me Carol. You’ve met Bo and this here is Dickie.” Her fingers reach up to rustle the bird’s feathers.

“As long as it stays on your shoulder, we’ll be fine.”

“I take it you’re not a lover of birds.”


She continues, “Tips go to Bo. He’s joined a baseball team. Organized sports build character. Earning his cleats will teach responsibility. Do you agree?”

I point to the dollar in the jar. “What’s he done to earn the shoes?”

She smiles, tilts her head toward the kitchen. “Step inside, out of the sun. Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

“Roy Jackson.”

“Well, Mr. Jackson. Coffee’s on us.”

“Bo. Bring the man a coffee.”

Carol was summer waiting for autumn. I would come to understand how easy it was to learn her. At night she read aloud, spoke of traveling the world.

On the nightstand she kept a well read copy of ‘Life.’. She’d leaf through the pages, bewitched by the black and white photographs of old Paris.

“One day. One day I’ll visit Paris,” she had said. “rent a tiny attic room, throw myself into cafe culture, lose myself in art museums.”

“Long way from Bakersfield.”

“There’s this worn down hotel. La Contrascarpe,” she said. “Look.”

How coffee invites words. How twisted, intimate moments, become. How we cling to hope. Before I left California, she handed me a paperback.

“Read it, Roy.”

“Sorry. I don’t read.”

“Start,” she said. “It’s beat poetry. Plain speak. Life as it is.”

On the morning I left ‘Swans’, she stood on the porch, apron wrapped round her waist, one arm encircling Bo. She called out, “- and Roy. Don’t be sorry.”

The book became my Bible, the God of Worship: Kerouac. As for Carol Anne? I wrote letters. She wrote back about Junior League and a parts trucker from Alberta. He was set to adopt Bo.

Rummy interrupted. ” You still with me?”

I nod. My thoughts are miles from the pier and his are bullet proof.

“Marsha,” he continued. “What a lady.” He blew a smoke ring into darkness.

I watched it waver, shift and settle.

“Sometimes you lose.”

I nod, staring into the endless night-time sky. Somewhere south of north, was Ella. I had loved her, too. I missed her more.

“Whatever happened to Marsha?”

“Not sure. She had zero tolerance for rounders. First question, ‘What do you do for work?’ ”

He chuckled at the mention. “I countered. Where’s the boy’s father?'”

“He split.”

“Aces,” I said.

“Marsha spoke her mind. ‘Hold a door. Ladies, first. Pick flowers from a ditch. Convince me I’m pretty. Sit with me in the dark.’ ”

Rummy shook his head. “That’s high talk for a guy like me. Back then, I was chasing a Coat Check gal in one of Jimmy’s clubs. I wasn’t familiar with deep conversation and multiple shots of coffee.”

His words felt heavy, serious, truthful. I thought of Jacquie, always waiting. Of how her eyes shone when she spoke of art. The passion and promise of more as she accepted less.

There was a time I had thought her beautiful. I thought of Jock and the way he read the paper, line by line, page by page. The tap, tap, tap of his mug, the coffee refill signal.

There was too much going on in my mind. I thought of Annie. “Mama says Papa thinks he’s the Maharajah.” Annie’s innocent chatter alongside Madeline’s silence. Jock’s beginnings of a smile at his granddaughter’s wit. Moments that grapple conscious. I should go home. Instead I sit in silence, with nature as my witness, listening to Rummy’s words.

“Pass the bottle,” Rummy says. His voice softens.”I was humbled by Marsha’s burning self respect. She wanted nothing from me except company. Marsha was completely herself, unscripted and different from anyone I had known. Aside from my saintly mother. God bless her.”

I watched as he formed the shape of a cross. “To mother,” I said.

Rummy took another drink. “To mother. Mother was a saint. Snuck us out of Poland, hid me in the engine room of a train. She paid dearly for safe passage. Never saw my old man. I learned early on, whenever you see a tear slip like rain from the eyes of a woman, pay attention.” He sighed. “Tears are the sign of a good woman.”

“So find Marsha.”

A right fist, rapped my skull.

“Listen up, Kid,” he said. “I already told you. Sometimes you lose. Stay outta the club. Forget Ella. Say a few Hail Marys and get over her.”

I had a list of names to forget. Ella’s was at the top. Love shakes you up. I knew in time, memories soften. Ella was different. I’d never forget her. Every moment I spent in the company of someone else, I felt her. This is how love is. It haunts. Life becomes dull. Every tree, every flower that once bloomed appears dead. I finally understood the poet.

Ardua Pier: Part Two

Rummy and Roy


“Listen, Kid- some free advice. Let Ella go. This is messy. You stand to lose everything.”

Rummy pulled a lighter from his jacket pocket, a beautiful piece of equipment fashioned in Art Deco style. As the wheel hit stone, a flame lit darkness. I held my breath. Butane. Rummy’s eyes narrowed. He focused on the task at hand, toasting the foot of a Cuban Cohiba.

~ Rummy and Roy: Part Two

Ardua Pier


Parisian Blue

Parisian Blue sweeps across blank canvas. Jacqueline takes three steps back. Graceful, her head tilts right, then left. It is noon. She is wearing her housecoat.

Her legs are tanned, feet bare. She wears a watch, fastened tightly to a tiny wrist, an adornment she will ignore. Time holds little meaning. There are breakfast dishes to wash, grill cheese in the frypan. Later, there is dinner to prepare.

I watch as her manicured fingers lift a lit cigarette from a cut glass ashtray. She tips the filter to her lips and closes her eyes. Sunlight from an open window cascades across her face. She has the good looks of a 1950’s screen star: hair as black as night, eyes a dark shade of denim. Lately, she has taken to rolling and tucking the ends, as is the fashion.

“A chignon,” she says.

After one pull on the cigarette, she exhales and stuffs it into the heap.

I notice a trace of lipstick: Venice Red.