A writer I know was in her 50s when she discovered that her childhood was a lie. She learned the truth by accident, and the discovery knocked her off kilter, partly because it was traumatic and mostly because the truth came out right as she was starting to reconcile an already complicated personal history by … Continue reading Something about stories.
A new year’s resolution: Write something every day. SOMETHING. There; that is done. That is one. (Not so hard, was it?) Do it again tomorrow. Do it better.
True to the period, the walls in the master bedroom were originally covered in wallpaper, glued directly to the plaster underneath. Instead of removing the wallpaper, Jackie (or, more likely, her mother) painted over it. At some point, Mrs. Jones (or, more likely, Jackie) added a layer of gold grasscloth to one wall in the … Continue reading Artifacts.
The first kitchen I remember is the one on Agnes Place, the house, built in 1912, where we lived from my toddler years until I started first grade. I remember five very specific things about this kitchen. The first memory is visual: The window above the sink looked out onto the back yard, where we … Continue reading The solace of my mother’s kitchen: Part 1
It was more the things left unsaid than anything spoken. When we bought Jackie's house, we knew several of the neighbors on the block, had many friends in the neighborhood, and found connections at every turn. Two of my mother's close friends had grown up on this block, one a couple of houses to the … Continue reading Secrets and haunts.
"Hey, how about you come to dinner one night, and I'll bring out some good wine, and you can teach me how to make that chocolate soufflé. I'm dying to know how to make that." Here are the things I loved about my first apartment, a first-floor gem in an classic old, brick building, situated … Continue reading Prequel: A light in the attic.
It is our 22nd summer in Memphis. It is time now, in the midst of a global pandemic, racial reckoning, and massive upheaval, to tell the story of our house. But the story of our house, our home, would be void of meaning without the story of how we got here. And so, to start, … Continue reading An ordinary marriage.
"Write it down," my friend said. We were sitting on my front porch, late one Saturday afternoon. I want to describe it as a gray and drizzling scene, with a thin ribbon of cool air riding a warm breeze, the signal of oncoming weather. In truth, I can't remember this particular detail. The day may … Continue reading Write it down.
