She was different from my father’s mother, Mary Elizabeth King Sheehan right out of Cork. There was an elegant thirty-year widow for you, tall and gracious, precise of language, with her little black widow’s hat on her head and the shiny glasses on her nose and a bread roll or two in her pocketbook whenever she supped outside her Somerville home. Her pocketbook was always black. It always shone the light around it. A touch of new leather at her hands as if a bargain had just been made. At Ginn and Co. in Cambridge, she was a bookbinder, for more than sixty years eventually, and never baked a pie in her life it seems. Or baked bread. But she could wash your feet and scrub your back on a visit with her slender fingers and make you feel new all over.Continue reading “Telling Two Granddames Apart by Tom Sheehan “
Flashing Mirrors at a House Built in 1742 by Tom Sheehan
I leaned against the largest maple tree, planted hungry years before upon a leech trench in my back yard, watching my going out of me at play and shining the souls of mirrors back, telling each other what we knew.
I loved him from the tree, later a window dark-squared above the wide grass, as I leaned toward his hands moving out of himself, making; and the corners of the house, the inners and outers hammered upwards from my hand in late repair.Continue reading “Flashing Mirrors at a House Built in 1742 by Tom Sheehan”
Somalia by Frederick K Foote
“How are you, cousin?” That’s what I said to the tall, willowy, aloof blonde, the only other passenger on the elevator that morning,Continue reading “Somalia by Frederick K Foote”
Sister Mother by Yash Seyedbagheri
One day, you look for money in your sister’s drawers and you discover something else completely. You started out the day Nick Botkin, sister of Nancy, son of Penelope. Now Penelope’s your grandmother and Nancy’s your mother.Continue reading “Sister Mother by Yash Seyedbagheri”