Between Sleeps

today i am sad for the people who died, for the people who thought maine was safe, for the family and friends left to pay for the funerals . we all know someone who knows someone, or we were someone who’s world shattered (because that’s how tightly knit we are in maine) . but really,…

Sunday is when I feel loneliest.  It seems to rain every Sunday here.  Dreariness taking on its own life and seeping into mine.  Sunday is the slowest day, meant for lazy mornings, pancakes, dog walks, coffee, and deep breaths of fall air as the leaves dry crisp red and fall to the ground.   Sundays here…

I. River People don’t talk about the river. Not as much as I think they should. The river runs through Waterville. It’s the Kennebec. I wonder how many people don’t know that. The Kennebec has been a major life force in Waterville since the mills have been around. The Hathaway Mill, the Lockwood Mill, and…

To remember: She told me the scar was deep and her skin still soft where they had sewn her back together, sensitive if you touched it.  She told me that she almost forgot to ask the doctor, an afterthought to a slew of questions that felt more pertinent to returning to senior year of college…

It’s real.the gunthe bloodthe glassthe table She’s approaching himthinking he’s who you meantwhen you couldn’t say,the boy with the bloody face,he has a gun. You scream her name becauseif she gets hurt thenyou’ll never forgive yourselfeven though it’s not your faultyou couldn’t sayhe has a gun You don’t scream to herhe has a gunbecause he…

I haven’t been here since you since there was snow on the ground since you walked behind me I took a wrong turn at first it’s been so long. a soundtrack in my ear that we never shared but reminds me so much of you sun streaming through the bare and naked branches. Last time…

Only two things that money can’t buy, and that’s true love and homegrown tomatoes.  That song played at my grandfather’s funeral.  Well, not actually the funeral, it was after the Roman Catholic service.  It was the first time I had ever seen a dead body with the skin all waxy and sunken into the casket…

“They’re called crepuscular rays,” he told me when the tide was low and the rocks slippery and the seaweed still shiny.  It would be romantic if it were anyone else.  The bay was beautifully blown glass reflecting the painted sky and bending ever so slightly with the breeze, the kind of water they tell you…