Cherry Cream Cheese Pie

As kids we ate Del Monte peas, carrots, green beans from a can. I have no memory of fresh zucchini, broccoli, eggplant or beets ever appearing on our plates. My mother didn’t like to cook, though she was raised picking from her father’s garden—golden corn and juicy tomatoes, lettuces grown green and fresh, fava beans brought from the old country. She fancied herself a modern woman, or perhaps, she just didn’t have the time or inclination, after running around after five young children all day.

Not Talking With Ghosts

You don’t really “talk” to ghosts, anyway. It’s my experience, which is very, very limited, that it’s all unspoken. Nothing audible passes, though you do hear words, not through ears, more like in the chest, that juncture in the upper thorax, slightly above where the heart lies.

Songs From My Soul

I just reorganized my closet, dresser, filed or shredded papers that have been on my desk for months. I’ve got a bag of clothes, shoes, belts and sundry other items ready to take to the local women’s shelter. I’ve folded and tucked away winter sweaters, long-sleeve shirts and corduroy pants and pulled out the summer dresses, shorts and sleeveless tops.