chocolate is a verb

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Tag Archives: Mason

A Bowl of Words…fragment

“Laura?”
“Mom?”
“What ever happened to Brian?”
“Richie’s friend Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Oh Mom, you must remember. Remember he used to race sailboats? In the summers, during college, he sort of hitchhiked around the world, crewing on sailing yachts. Then in the summer of his junior year, Brian and a friend and the friend’s sister were sailing off of Hawaii and the boat just vanished. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, now it’s sort of coming back.”
“After the search was called off, his parents wouldn’t give up. They took a second mortgage on their house and kept looking. They continued to believe the boat was blown up in some kind of weapons test. They tried to get satellite photos, but the feds weren’t very helpful. Brian was such a great sailor and a really strong swimmer, and there was no weather of any consequence the day they disappeared. It was very suspicious, but ultimately, it’s been what, 20-some years now, and Brian and his friends and the boat are still gone without a trace.”
“Those poor parents.”
“You and Dad weren’t really friends with them, were you? How come? Richie and Brian were such good friends.”
“I don’t really remember. There was something between Mason and Brian’s father, I think. Some male line-in-the-sand kind of thing. Maybe your dad will remember.”
“Didn’t I hear that Brian’s father died a year or two ago?”
“Maybe. I don’t know, honey.”
“I know Rich said Brian’s parents wouldn’t both leave the house at the same time for about ten years, in case someone called with news, or Brian walked through the door one day.”
“God. What an awful story.”

A Bowl of Words…fragment

“Mom, I thought you had lemonade.” “On the porch. Just get yourself a glass and some ice cubes.” “Are you going to have some or do you want more iced tea?” “Yes, both, I think. I’ll use the same glass, but throw a couple more ice cubes in it, would you, honey?”

The lemonade pitcher sat on the table next to a bowl of lemons. They were craggy and pocked and some were nearly the size of grapefruit. Each year, the lemon tree scented the back yard, porch and kitchen with its fragrant flowers. It was a lemon factory, audible from 20 feet with a constant buzz of bees, year after year producing bushels of lemons. It had been the first planting in the rocky slope of the back yard when Rosemary and Mason moved in to the house, when Laura was an infant, Mason unable to imagine a summer without lemonade and lemony iced tea.

Each year, Laura had watched the fruit grow from tiny nubs to hard green peas to miniature limes, then expand until the tree’s slender twigs looked like they would break under the burden. In adolescence, she had rubbed wedges of lemon over her nose and cheeks to make her freckles go away, and faithfully squeezed the juice into her hair, hoping that one morning she would find a sunny blonde looking back at her from the bathroom mirror.