I woke up to the smell of my mom’s homemade porridge. It smelled like cinnamon sugar with raisins. It smelled so good! I got out of bed. After I reached the door I went down the hallway. Just then I noticed that yesterday I did not have a hallway. Then in a curious way I walked down the stairs that I did not have yesterday either.
When I was five I had a small bike named The Green Monster. I fell down a lot. I went to the Lopez School track. Patience was whipping around and around. Risto had a dirt bike. I wobbled but I stayed up! I did eight victory laps. Then I went home.
Recently I received my membership card for the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. The next day I deleted my name from a listserve for the state public health association. One rite of passage followed another as I make a living as a nurse, writer, and artist - a balancing act I’ve been refining for nearly ten years.
To look at me, you wouldn’t think I was the kind of guy who wears jewelry, but I happen to own a Northwest Coast Indian bracelet. It just goes to show, you never know.
Karen was crying. As I walked along the rickety balcony that led past her room on the second story of our hotel, little more than a grey-brick family compound around a cluttered courtyard, I could hear her sobbing.