Thirty years ago, my best friend John died. In his honour and in my fog of grief, I rescued a beautiful mutt puppy in Montreal, the city where he died. I named her Zoey, Greek for "life". Wanting to be the most excellent of good mummies but having very little money, I found a wee guest house in Los Angeles for the two of us. The structure was more shack than house but, oh, the yard! It was huge, and anchored by an extraordinary orange tree that perfumed my Spring evenings wit

Engagement, April 2010 after Egg Toss, August 1989 In my memory the engagement happened to two adults, though we were anything but, with me fumbling my way through grad school, trying to act as an authority figure as a TA to students older than me, him working the front desk of a hotel so he always had a free place to stay when he traveled. We stay up late every night, drinking beer at a new- to-us bar or downing six-packs at home. We play Guitar Hero and watch episodes of Fr

What Doesn’t Kill You The mulberry leaves have faded to a papery yellow, again. We’ve almost lost this plant twice—rescuing it from dehydration ( Have you watered it? No, I thought you had?),  only to see it washed out in the Summer storms. I’ve been feeding it diluted nutrients slowly, slowly, until its pale veins coursed with green, and its foliage softened and flushed with colour. Looking closer, I see tiny buds sprouting from the stalks. I rub a leaf between my fingers—gl

The receptionist turns up just before I leave. Helpful. Calm. A little weary, like she’s just been woken by the air raid sirens too. She points me in the direction of the shelter, but lingers. Maybe thinking about the hotel dog. Maybe that I am overreacting. Maybe about the war. She notices my trembling hands, and her eyes soften with kindness. Or pity. I wander down the street. Find a building — half-lit, eerie. A cross between a communist obelisk and a Lexus showroom. Neith

Set me down inside a diner scene—in a film, a novel, on TV—and I’m bound to settle into whatever story you’re telling.  My back intuits the vinyl of the booth; my small breath quickens to mingle with the sighs aspiring from warmed coffee; surrounding chatter about new storefront churches, high-school basketball and the weather becomes the weather I know.  David Lynch, that great, mad American filmmaker, touched the truth when he said, “There’s a safety in thinking in a diner.

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