Monkey grass forms the boundary of my earliest memories. Our small suburban yard—mom called it our postage stamp yard—had been intentionally designed as a place for children to thrive. It was perfect for my sister, my brother, and me. It boasted a climbing rope, a sandbox, a small above-ground
Inexhaustibly cheerful and intensely, infinitely blue, Mom’s morning glories grew in the small strip of lawn that wasn’t devoted entirely to us. Twined around their triangular trellis leaning against the back wall of the house, her morning glories greeted each sunrise with unabashed if non-optional joy. I loved to
A sweet gum tree dominated the front yard of our elderly neighbors, Glen and Gloria Senaker. Glen always appears in my memory wearing white pressed pants with a tan belt. Tucked into the belt was a light-colored shirt, probably collared, I don’t recall. He was a consummate old man
Maple trees mean goodbye. My little brother stood in front of me, dying. A jagged, red streak zigzagged down his face from just below his fuzzy white-blonde hair, down his forehead, and past his chin where blood dripped to his feet. His skull had split wide open. I froze,
We moved into our new house in Virginia on April 9, Dad’s birthday. It rained the entire day—a chill, gray drizzle falling from a thick, sour cream sky. Preceding the moving truck, we turned into the long, paved driveway, each of us in an agony of anticipation. We missed