My Father Was Zorro

It was 1958, another Thursday night in front of the television set.

Daddy sat in his easy chair, feet propped on the hassock, elbows resting on the little sleeves that kept the stuffing inside the chair’s frayed arms. We three kids sprawled on the oval rag rug.

Sometime between eight and eight-thirty, during Zorro’s commercial break, our father decided we were ready.

“It’s time you knew.” He reached for the bowl of popcorn on his TV tray. “The truth is, I’m Zorro.”

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Mother’s Pearl Pin

Mother's pearl pin and blue scarfI walk under tall hemlocks, opening and closing the black umbrella borrowed from my brother’s hall closet, cutting through the small park at the end of his street before circling back to the house.

cold mist
round a shaded pond
after mom’s service
ducks swim away from me
while ripples widen
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The Comfort of Old Flannel

The two old sleeping bags were rolled up at the back of an upper closet shelf in the bedroom for most of the time David and I lived in our current house, which is more than 16 years now.

Covered in faded green ducking, each bag had an extra flap of the tightly-woven material at the head. The flap, wrapped all the way around the roll, was secured by green cotton cords sewn into the hem and tied in bows. [Read more…]