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Or, so some readers said when I started appearing online without a certain headpiece. A raffia crown, tied up with a faded ribbon.

I remember when I found my first—and still my only—Helen Kaminski. In a city not unlike the one in which I type. Ordered blocks that marched down to cold water. I wandered into a Victorian arcade, a layer from another time, and I lifted her off the rack, and I slid her on. Continue Reading

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I was late. MTM and I were both working in Nashville, and we shared a car. I tore into Nashville’s West End, past Vanderbilt’s grand entrance, on a mission to pick MTM up from a meeting before he scolded me.

My turn was up ahead. On my left. I forgot my blinker and skidded into the turn lane. The landscape changed while I waited, lit from within by a brightness older than Time. Continue Reading