When I left Moira’s house on Friday morning, I set my GPS for the closest place where I could buy a warm, fuzzy sweater, which she had said was the Salvation Army Family Store on 4th Avenue at Geary Street. The weather drove my need; I forget from time to time that the San Francisco…

I raced an egret down the levee road yesterday.  The line of its wide wings caught the airstream  to rise over the path of a crow.  As I slowed for the dogleg next to the inlet where the old crane stood for so many years, the white bird banked and made the turn with me. …

When I downsized, I limited myself to 21 inches of hanging clothes and what could fit in six small drawers.  Off-season clothes lived under my bed until a friend gifted me with an antique trunk.  But at any given time, I can boast about 30 hanging items, two drawers of delicates, and four drawers, 15…

I own seventeen chairs.  Six live at the art collective which I founded and manage.  One sits at the apex of the bookcase and antique trunk which form a 45-degee angle in my tiny bedroom.  Four face each other on my porch.  Three stand in the sitting room under the dropped loft in which I…

I sit on the deck of the Airbnb where I have encamped for the duration of my Missouri stay.  The air grows heavy with the threat of spring rain.  From the small settee, I can see a heavy flower pot flanked by bricks balanced on the top of the privacy fence and a china frog…

I come from a long line of amazing mothers.
My father’s grandmother bequeathed me the name that I bear today but I never met her.  She moved to St. Louis after her husband died in New Orleans and lived with her married daughter and son-in-law in Millwood, a small unincorporated area in West St. Louis…

I take Twitchell Island Road to work now because I’ve seen or heard about too many fatalities at the intersection of Jackson Slough Road and Highway 12.  The frequent occurrence reminds me that when I first moved here, I came upon a fatality that had just happened a few minutes before my car reached the…