by Linda C. Wisniewski The grease-filled pan waited on my kitchen counter all morning. He made baby back ribs the night before and the sink was full of pots and knives, the barbecue brush, a spatula, and a large cookie sheet of dark brown congealed fat and sauce. We walked right past it this morning […]
Linda C. Wisniewski
October 28 – Maui Sunrise
by Linda C. Wisniewski I had forgotten light arrives before the sunrise, that the sun sends beams in advance of its peek above the horizon, so slowly there is no single moment when darkness turns to light. Dawn is a gradual process, like my sons growing up before my eyes. I saw it coming when […]
July 22 – For My Grandparents in the Train Station
by Linda C. Wisniewski Once a week, a white flatbed truck pulls up on our street, delivering riding mowers, short Hispanic men and one white guy, the obvious “boss.” They spill from the truck like bees, everyone in a hurry, armed at different seasons with leaf blowers, jugs of liquid fertilizer, or shovels and rakes. […]
