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It’s Ama. She’s going to be Ama. AH-ma. That’s what she’s decided—Jennifer, our daughter, whose son Jonathan is now a father. Perfect, I think. So now am I GrandAHma ? Wait, Great-grandAHma ? Or just Ma (pronounced Mah )? I’m de finitely not Maw. Now that would be revolting. Or could Solomon, the new baby, just say Grandmommy like all the others when his soft suckling mouth grows brave enough to try the word? Great-grandmommy, I think, would be taking things too far. It sounds overly greatly grand. I’m all thumbs. Mere days after his birth, over at Jonathan and Hannah’s, carrying Solomon across their grassy, bumpy yard and trying not to fall and break him—Jonathan had handed him over when I got out of the car—I realized I might be stabbing his tender fetal-curled back (through his clothes) with my car keys. Another day, Hannah on our sofa, Paulson and Jonathan outside somewhere, and me prowling the house with Solomon, I let his head slightly wobble. Obviously I was f...
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Now That Mine’s Worse than My Dog’s While the world blows up we go along, go along, attending to trifles. Some of us, at least me. I think all the time about my hair. I was running over to Jennifer’s for my trims. No wrangling for beauty shop appointments, anymore, and having to drive all the way into town. But there were issues. I’d go over with my towel, maybe my head already wetted in anticipation, and she’d plant me on a stool on her porch in the cold wind and demand how much do you want off? and then whack whack whack, she’d be done. No wasting time with that woman. No coddling me, as if she’d pined for me to visit and now I was there she could deliberate with me over how to best fix my mop, weigh every snick, draw out the process. So for one thing, I needed more attention. The other thing was what my grandgirl said. She said my hair was damaged. She said I shouldn’t be blow-drying it, frying it to death. She said to soothe the frizz, instead I should work in some coconu...
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Wintry Morning   Dog eats dog’s—no, deer’s—leg.       
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Now That We’re Back Whether the sleek hulk set in glass ocean water far out our windows was stalled or gliding past, who knew? It must have made it somewhere, because the speck disappeared and no news came of a ship going down. Whether our house on the mango banana coconut tamarind breadfruit hill, with our bed so vast we lay in two different countries, was the easier on our living, or the one back home in our bare broken woods, how to tell? Only here, things were for play. Here we had sand enough for castles. Whether the waters surging up the sharded rocks, crashing and spuming salt and cresting toothpaste blue, were more the spectacle, or our g leeful gleaming sunburnt children, who could say? Neither would keep. For a sugared shining spell we had the both. Photography by Caroline Murch. Family trip, Playa Mar Chiquita, Manití, Puerto Rico      
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Jello   So it comes from horses’ toenails and it’s sugary and artificially colored and everybody snickers at the very mention. But I keep it on hand—the store brand, usually orange. Somebody in our nearby family might be just getting over a stomach flu, and as we all know, any nourishment a person’s weakened system can keep down is better than no intake, period. Because the mother over there doesn’t want jello in her cupboards, I’ll make some with peaches floating in it and take it over to much rejoicing. But I needed the strawberry flavor the other week for a dessert recipe I was itching to try. I didn’t have any strawberry. The top layer involves adding to the jello frozen strawberries, which sounded to me a bit morbid because frozen strawberries get mushy. In our freezer, though, were crushed strawberries, highly sugared. Those can stay good for days in the fridge. And I had two packets of plain gelatin, maybe 15 years old, which I could include, along with water. I figured I...
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Sunday morning very bright came in and I made pictures Made pretty window pictures Made pretty pretty pictures While in the streets, while in the streets Still jagged ice and soldier boots Still icy icy clutching fear Still salted shards, still tears like sleet Still blue-cold songs, still fall-down-slick hope-crusted trampled streets. Still pretty pretty light came in, still I made pretty pictures.   (From Hymn by Peter, Paul & Mar y . My church has those same  windows   but Sunday I stayed home. )  
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Maybe it’s just too much of a burden—running your eyes across the 900s, in town at the library—snagging on one and another one and maybe one more yet. The chance of hitting on the kind to get a person through the night is fairly high, but it’s not guaranteed, there’s still a risk, and if your mother goes sometimes herself, doesn’t mind the hunting part, why not make her do it? So that’s what my daughter does. Jul26 Her: I need a book to read!!! Me: Boy do I ever have one. But you’re not getting it yet.   Her: ❤️ Her: The orange kill book is kinda a dud.   Nov2 Her: Got any books for me? ?? Me: Only 2 Time magazines and a New Yorker. Her: Ok. You’d think, my little pile of picks, surely we’d both calm down for a while. But nothing in life is for sure. Nov3 Me: When Paulson stops in this afternoon can you please give him that library book? My turn now. Her: Which book? Me: The one you just read. I forget the title. Memoir. Her: I haven’t finished it yet. Are you des...
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