“The Owner of the Night interrogates whoever walks this shadow-lane, this hour not reserved for you: who are you to enter it?” —Mark Doty Nocturne Brandon Clyde is the guardian … Continue reading Nocturne
My father’s death was what Mr. Vu would call an untimely death. If, at some point during the uneventful fifty years of his life, my father had ever ventured a … Continue reading Threadbare
There’s nothing like walking down the streets of San Francisco, on a cold morning, when the sodden clouds cluster just enough to shade the sad lives curled up in street … Continue reading A Snippet of a Forgettable Life
The first Sunday morning. Braided aureate hair glittering, green floral dress flapping in the subtle wind. A violinist is performing under an old oak tree with its leaves newly birthed, his enchanting music slipping into her small heart.
The second Sunday morning. Red maxi dress and sandals, her rosy cheeks blushing as the violinist kneels down and pulls out a red velvet-wrapped box.
The third Sunday morning. Hair pulled back into a low bun, an oversized
cotton dress embracing her growing belly. She is whispering a tune, one that was played with the violin so long ago, one that she can hear no more.
The fourth Sunday morning. Strands of gray hair hanging loosely on her forehead, a baggy teddy bear costume, colorful balloons and a birthday cake. A kid stands laughing in his silvery voice as he watches her dancing his favorite cartoon song.
The fifth Sunday morning. White hair tightly pulled back, she has on her glasses and an old pajamas. Here and there voiced the story of beautiful Snow White and her Prince, under the reddening leaves of the autumn.
The sixth Sunday morning. There is white outlining the barren trees, white dropping from the sky and rippling in funny little circles as the wind swirls its way in, white hushing the soft tunes buried under the snow, under the tombstone, yet rising still to dangle in the air like a stubborn little girl.