I met them for the first and only time eight years ago. I don't remember who invited me, but I remember the house where the meeting took place. There was a parlor connected to another parlor with big, comfortable chairs; then a bigger room, light and airy with a long banquet table dressed for a party.
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I don't think about her every day. And I don't cry for her anymore. Not often, anyway. Not the way I used to.
I can look at pictures of her young and I can smile. I can read what she wrote in my baby book and not fall apart. I can even listen to the record she made…
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I planted 200 tulips last Nov 14. I know this because I wrote it down in my gardening journal, a little book my family contends is proof that I am clearly obsessed. Who, over the age of 6, they ask, cuts out pictures of morning glory and columbine and saves the little stick-in-the ground plastic identifiers that come with potted plants? I try to explain, as I search for my glue stick and scissors, that at least what I cut and paste in my journal stays put. Look. See? Orange tulips tinged with yellow. Purple anemones. Baby coreopsis. Sapphire blue delphinium. This is what is supposed to be growing in my garden right now…
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I've taken more than 200 pictures. A few are okay. You take photos of little kids in baseball uniforms and you're sure to get some decent shots. But not one of them comes close to capturing all that's been happening at Devoll Field in Canton, Mass., for the last six weeks.
Every Saturday morning at 8:30, the field swarms with the smallest players in town. It's Little League, T-Ball division, and the place is packed…
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