The Light of What They Suffer

IMG_4086An egg-shaped paperweight sits on top of a stack of books in one of the cubbies of our largest bookshelf. Fixed in the middle of its transparency is a jellyfish, frosted white. Its body, the part that pulsates and spreads as it travels through the water, is about the size of teacup and the tentacles hang from its inversion. In the egg, there’s the reflection of the outside—in another time, the blue of summer midday, now, a sliver of white, of cold season and I squint to see the snow that’s falling, to witness its movement, hoping it transfers to illusion of movement of the wiry thin tentacles, to watch the jellyfish swim upwards towards the surface, to break free, to stretch through its resin.

When I stop imagining, stop seeing it swim, the entire action of my scene continue reading…


All of it

Wood 8A funeral home near St. Paul, MN, just east, in a small town over the Wisconsin border.  My friend, cremated, his remains in a two-toned wooden box, something that just as well could hold jewelry or collected stamps.  One of his sons–there are four children, the boys are in the middle, ages six and four–stops playing for a bit with the other children at the wake and goes to his mother, now widowed, and asks a question he’s asked before in the previous couple days since his father’s death.

“Where’s Dad?” continue reading…