Autumn in Seattle 2009

Montauk fisherman. I love how he steadies himself on the rock, focused on the next bluefish he will snag. In the background I can hear a muffled Frank Sinatra belting out Summer Wind, the silver Lincoln Continental pulsating. My father sits inside, slapping time on his knees with the windows shut tight. I slip down the sandy trail, shells crunching underfoot, gulls screeching overhead. I look back to see him settled in the passenger seat, wearing a Ben Hogan bucket golf hat, big grin on his ruddy face. He sees me. I wave wildly and he blows me a big, fat kiss.

Baking. Snowstorm in Seattle, on the way to visit the boy who can lick his elbow for some sledding, hot turkey and wine. 360s on the slick, hilly streets. Remnants of days passed on flat Long Island parking lots spinning around on the ice in a Falcon station wagon. Heading to a Roslyn wine and cheese bar to see Aztec Two Step. At the Duck Pond is an old shack with a weathered, grey wooden door. On this door is a shiny, glass, maple-colored knob with gold flecks affixed to a rusty brass plate. I told myself that if I ever left Long Island, I would take it with me. When I did leave, it was gone. I still look for it on every grey door on every shack on every island I visit.

Still life at the red light

A Golden Retriever is holding a tennis ball in her mouth as she sits in the back of a car. At a red light she sticks her head out and the passengers in neighboring cars all laugh and point. The light turns green. The dog drops the ball. The car proceeds down the street. Five blocks later at another red light the dog is still hanging her head out of the window, looking down at where she dropped the ball. I find this so poignant. The ball is way gone yet she is staring at the ground where it should still be sitting. Certain it will reappear at any moment. But it won't. She can't reason that it's way back there. The poignancy? Dogs never look back? They live in the moment? The have no expectations? All of the above? Thing is, there's another tennis ball down the street, around the corner or under the couch at home. And when she finds it, all will be well with her. It's that simple. Not that all tennis balls are alike, just that there are many and, like pennies on the sidewalk, there will always be another one. Not the same one, but another one.

The Boy Who Licks His Elbow