The Postscript

September Sunshine

I walk around in my shiny new boots, and I wonder if I shouldn’t be doing something different—even if it’s less ambitious than learning to fly or stockpiling enough food to live on for six months.

Talking to Strangers

We are all making up stories for one another without knowing what the real story is. The story I make up for myself when I am anxious is that I am failing—somehow, somewhere—and no one has told me how or why.

Up North With Mom and Dad

I think I’ve known for most of my life I would never be as consistent or disciplined or sensible as my parents. They were this way when I grew up, and they remain every bit as remarkable now that I am getting old.

Lukewarm Water

A friend objected to my recent column. It wasn’t realistic, he wrote. Bad things happen, and people like me should acknowledge them. He talked about tornados and shootings. He said people like me would go looking for a pony in a pile of horse poop.

Too Old

We all agreed that it should be more entertaining than it was—at least for us. We suspected other people (younger people) might have more fun reading this than we were.

Footprints

The cat prints and the poetry and the leaf print in the cement will not last 200 million years. But they will last longer than the poet who wrote the words or the cat who left the prints or the tree that dropped the leaf. And I think that is, somehow, wonderful.

Father’s Day

It doesn’t seem like my dad’s way of looking at the world, it just seems like the way the world should be looked at—if I take the time to be thoughtful and don’t rush out and do something stupid.

So Much

I know for certain that strangers have helped me when I needed help, and kind words have changed my day from terrible to something better—something more hopeful.

Stubby’s Company

I don’t think my mother ever expected to have a red squirrel as a pet. I know she resisted for a long time. But Stubby has changed her mind about at least one red squirrel, and I think that is kind of remarkable.

The Last Song

Songs tided me over. They gave voice to feelings that were either too powerful or too painful to experience in silence. Songs grounded me when I felt I might fly away or explode. Songs made sense of things, even if I couldn’t explain in words what I learned from them.
 
 
 
 

Not Impossible

My cousin Dane is the kind of guy who sits back in a room and listens to everyone trying to solve a problem and, after they’ve exhausted themselves trying to figure something out, he’ll say, “You know, what you might try is…” And whatever he suggests, it will be exactly the right thing to do.

All the Flowers

It turns out that I love flowers far more than I knew. I love the shapes and the colors and the varieties and the seasons. I love how some will take over for a while, commanding attention, and then they fade and something new comes to the fore.

Circumstantial Evidence

My mother reluctantly adopted Stubby after the tragic loss of half his tail last year. He went from her archenemy to her best friend, and now my mother feeds him every day. He has become quite tame and is clearly devoted to my mother and so, naturally, every time I chat with my mom, I ask how Stubby is doing.
Apparently, Stubby got into some trouble.

Apple Empanadas

It was midafternoon and not exactly our coffee and pastry hour. (Full disclosure: My husband, Peter, and I didn’t have a coffee and pastry hour, although this soon changed.) We cut one of those apple empanadas in half and tried it. And that was pretty much it.

The Painter

Now he has more commissions and offers to show in galleries than he can accept. People love his work, and so does he. “It freed me, my partner leaving,” he said. “If he hadn’t done that, I would never have gotten to paint!”

Hola Hour

As it turns to night, everyone naturally starts saying, “Buenas noches,” (“Good evening.”) This seems pretty straightforward, but determining when to stop saying “Good afternoon” and start saying “Good evening” is far more complicated than it seems.

Summer Cold

I went to bed early with a stomachache and a cough and a sore throat and the feeling that I must have behaved very badly to get all these things at once

Daddy’s Home

Who can blame these two unseen dogs for losing their little minds once a night—the most exciting time of the day—when Daddy finally gets home?

Marriage Stew

Maybe our marriage is peculiar; I am in no position to say. Maybe every marriage is peculiar in its own way.

The Cigar Box

If I now asked you to guess what was in the box, no matter how many guesses you were given, I’m betting you would be wrong.