Here I sit, on the cusp of Father’s Day, feeling both with and without Father — while the earth has a fever and pirates run amuck. I remember my father crying. I’m not sure when or at what age, though I could venture a guess — I was (perhaps) six. It was over our...
When my daughter was two, she found a bumblebee lying on our stone pathway. It was late August in New England – when gold-trimmed monarch cocoons dangle under milkweed, and sleeping pompoms of woolly bear caterpillars nestle in leaves. To the naked eye, the bee...
